


Love and War

by dkenedy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 58,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkenedy/pseuds/dkenedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione is captured during the horocrux hunt. Missing for two months, the order assumes she is dead. So, why is she laying unconscious at George Weasley's feet? Will love save them? Set during the D.H. but plot is quite different</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Blood

**Love and War  
** **Prologue**

 

**Blood**

* * *

Blood. That was all she could smell. The metallic scent of immense blood loss filled her nostrils and blocked out all her other senses. It was strange how the aroma of iron and oxygen numbed the pain she felt and the sounds she heard. She was once nauseated by the smell of it; one winter her friend, Ginny Weasley, got a minor cut from the parchment scroll she was rolling up and Hermione nearly vomited. That was then. Hermione welcomed it now. With deep breaths, she sucked in the odour and savoured each gulp as she shut her eyes. Another wave of needles pierced through her.

"Crucio," A sweet song whispered against her ear. Hermione stifled her screams by biting her lip when again the pain coursed through her like lava.

Hermione was used to the burning sensation by now. She felt it every day for the past two months so, she knew what to expect and refused to give the Death Eaters any satisfaction. That was what they were after of course. The satisfaction of hurting Harry Potter, the golden boy of the war, and they were going to hurt him through her. They were not getting anything from her today. "Crucio!" The voice screeched again. Frustration was evident in the shrill witch's tone, and Hermione's stiff body bowed upwards, almost snapping in half, but still no terror left her lips.

She tried her hardest to stop the stray tears which escaped from the corner of her eyes, but those flowed freely. The salt dripped down her cheeks and off her face, leaving a trail within the blood staining her face. Still, she did not scream. Black curls fell before her face, tickling her skin and stinging her cuts when the strands brushed against her check.

"I will not ask again, where did you get it?" The calm in the threat was filled with chaos, anger, and destruction. Hermione gave no response. She barely even heard the voice.

The question seemed so far away. All she could hear was the heavy pounding in her ears and the motto she chanted in her mind.

_'You'll be home soon.'_

Each time Hermione was brought to the dark sitting room her mind repeated those words; she was determined not give into Bellatrix Lestrange. The name, so vile and disgusting, entered her thoughts, and Hermione mistook the blood on her lips for the poison of her captor's evil. And, with another calming breath, she prepared herself for what punishment awaited.

"Don't think we will get anywhere today, Bells." The dark witch's attention diverted and she suddenly darted towards her ally. Even with blurred vision Hermione could see the long black sleeve of Bellatrix's dress hanging down before Scabior's neck as her sharp black fingernails dug into the flesh of his throat. Scabior's breathing was almost as ragged as Hermione's.

"Don't call me that," Bellatrix hissed before dropping the man to the floor. Turning her attention back to Hermione, who lay lifeless, the death eater sneered. "But you're right. We won't get anything from her today. Throw the Mudblood back in the dungeon and ensure she is alive for tomorrow's questioning."

Hermione was thanking Merlin when a hand tightly gripped her ankle and, although she was being dragged down the stairs, a wave of relief rushed over her. Each step thrashed against her already damaged body, but she knew that her day was over. Tomorrow she would wake, scratch another tally mark into the stone, and repeat the process, but today she would rest. Haze fell over her and Hermione finally let her eyes close as she was thrown to the hard ground of her cell.

 _Finally_ , she thought, before the clouds smothered the moonlight.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Please review. I would love to hear your comments on it. All feedback is welcome; I just ask to keep it respectful. Like I said before, my mind took me someplace dark and this is what resulted.

_**Please review!** _


	2. At Peace

**Love and War  
Chapter 1**

**At Peace**

* * *

Two months. Sixty-one days, four hours and twenty-seven minutes to be exact. That was how long George Weasley let the stubble on his face grow. It was how long the Order had been in disarray trying to locate its brightest muggleborn member. It was precisely how long Hermione Granger had been missing.

The news had arrived with deafening silence. He remembered it clearly. It was the first time anyone heard from the war's golden trio since they left on their mission and, despite the dreadful memory being so long ago, the moment was still fresh in George Weasley's mind. He remembered the smell of the early morning day and how the sun was deceptively bright as it blanketed the burrow with a glow which poured through the windows. George and his twin brother, Fred Weasley, both woke with a sense of hope that, in hindsight, made the heartbreaking discovery even more crushing.

Five Weasleys, the ones who were left to protect the Burrow stronghold, were all seated at the kitchen table. Ginny Weasley, his younger sister, was on George's right while Fred sat on his left. Percy, his eldest brother, sat across them next to their mother, Molly. In a strangely comfortable silence, the family ate. The scratching of cutlery on already wore wooden plates and the quiet sips of pumpkin juice were the only noises. Until the tapping of an owl beak on the window startled them into defence.

It was George who jumped up to take the letter from the dark-feathered, strange bird. He was suspicious at first, but, upon recognising the handwriting, grew excited. He tore the wax seal, charmed to ensure security, and the letter responded to his touch. The page shot out of his hands like a bludger and rapidly folded into a paper face with a thunderbolt rip at the top. Harry Potter's rushed whisper boomed through the Burrow.

"If it is safe, say the password." With a flick of her wand and a mumble of 'gingersnaps,' Ginny removed the security ward and a quick message began.

"I know this is the first communication since we left. We couldn't risk the possibility of interception during the mission, but this is an emergency. They have her. Hermione. Snatchers got her as she tried to keep them away from Ron and I. They went south, south-west away from the Northern Forest, just outside of Rodin. Send the Order, send help. They got her."

Two months ago he heard those words and George still heard the booming instruction inside the caverns of his mind. The choked sob that came from the other side of the table still pierced through his chest. He remembered Percy placing a comforting hand on their weeping mother as she struggled to contain her tears. And the mumbled curse which Fred let slip still fed his internal panic.

Two months ago George rushed out of the kitchen door, collapsing to his knees just on the outskirts of the Burrow's garden. The ripping pain of inaction tore him in two. He knew full well the torture those demons would put her through and that he could do nothing killed him.

Two months ago the war suddenly became very real to George Weasley. Two months ago, she was taken, but it had only been two minutes since George Weasley looked upon the face of Hermione Granger.

On the hard ground of a dungeon cell, the first captured Order member lay before him. Beaten, bloody, and broken.

Tear tracks marred the blood and dirt which coated the white flesh below while bruises plastered nearly every inch of her. The wounds were so dark that the purple lesions overtook the surrounding night. She was a battered mess.

Behind him, the door slammed and the lock clicked shut. He was frozen in place watching the breaths which Hermione took. The stone walls were closing in on him and he shut his eyes to quell his nerves. Certainly he thought he might find her, but he didn't want to. Not with them. He remembered the chaos and destruction that happened just hours prior. The battle outside the Burrow projected on the blank canvas of his closed lids. He watched his family escape and that was the only consolation. Shortly after Ginny's form had twisted into nothing, the torture curse barrelled through him and he fell to the ground in agony.

The memory was so vivid; as the flames climbed the walls of the stronghold, he could feel the heat against his face, scorching his cuts with intensity. The spell consumed him with ferocious aggression and that was mirrored in the inferno destroying his childhood home. In his mind, he still laid on the grass suspended in the catatonic agony of the past, but a whimper drew him out.

All thought left him.

George crawled across the concrete floor; small jagged pebbles littered the broken and abused foundation and tore into his arms. Those little cuts paled in comparison to the gashes on his back, which dragged against the low ceiling forcing him closer to the ground.

This cell was a hole. A hole in a dungeon floor. It was hardly higher than the crawlspace of his Aunt Muriel's bungalow and the stench of blood, piss, and death was incubated in the air.

"Hermione," His voice all but a whisper as he took in the extent of the damage. Gently, George brushed a strand of her bloodstained, brown hair off her face and his thumb brushing against her heavily bruised cheek. Hermione Granger was broken.

He checked for a heartbeat and was immediately thankful for the soft thumping below the layers of ripped clothes and tattered flesh. He glanced at the brick wall before him, taking in the faint tally lines scratched in the bedrock. Slowly, moving towards it, George rested his back against the blocks, placed her head in his lap, and laid his sweater over her like a blanket.

"Soon," her voice broke the quiet. He could hardly believe she was able to speak but the whimper escaped her unconscious lips. He felt like he swallowed an anvil at the weight of what it could have meant.

"Soon," He repeated to her. Unable to look away, George held her. Hermione Granger, the woman the Order had pronounced to be 'at peace,' was living in hell. "It will be over soon."

* * *

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	3. Responsibility

**Love and War**  
**Chapter 2**

**Responsibility**

* * *

George's fingernails dug into his scalp while two fingers pressed into his ears, blocking out the curses which bellowed from the floor above. It had been two hours, but the noise did not stop. George willed his mind away from the torture Hermione was experiencing, reminding himself to focus on being a stone, but it was no use. The racket was overpowering.

George struggled to keep calm as he shook with rage. Not long ago Hermione stirred against him, twitching in her sleep before waking. A small smile graced her lips when she looked up at him, but her amber orbs hinted to the hidden misery. They were both locked in this awful place. He could see tears forming in her eyes as she struggled to sit up and greet him with a warm hug.

The bruises and injuries were concerning, but, at that moment, Hermione was conscious and alert, and that would be good enough for now. George's arms were still wrapped around her form when the heavy footsteps started. He did not pay much mind to it at first, but when Hermione jumped slightly and pulled out of his embrace, he noticed the booming thuds growing closer.

"Crucio!" the voice howled over him. George would have given anything to switch with her, let her relax for as long as he could swing it, but he knew that would not happen. Not if he begged, not if he spoke, or continued to show pain. His gripped his hair tighter, almost pulling out a large chunk of the fiery red strands in an attempt to do what Hermione asked.

 _Keep your cool, Georgie,_ he thought, knowing the only way was to remain uncaring but another second of the violent vibration above him and he was going to snap.

"Listen to me," she had said hastily, her hand rested against his stubbly cheek, but his eyes darted off of her and to the cell door. The thunderous dragging got louder and panic set in. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, heavy and unbearable. They were going to take her; they were going to try and break her. "George," she had whispered more forcefully, giving his skin a little smack, "don't scream." She whipped her head around as the thump of thick boots sounded in the corridor. "They're coming for me and if you fight, they will make it worse on both of us."

He had only nodded weakly then. He could still feel her weight under his hands and he clung onto that echo of physicality for reassurance. She was right, he knew that much, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered, not how strong, or courageous, or smart she was. No one could handle what they were doing and come out of it mentally unscathed.

"Cruico," another voice joined the female death eater, who he assumed was Bellatrix, and a thundering quake cascaded across the ceiling. A soft hiss of protest had escaped his lips before he fiddled with the ring on his thumb.

Taking a steadying breath, he stared down at the thin silver band that rested on his thumb, praying to the jewellery for help. It was barely noticeable, almost invisible as it sat on the joint between his thumb and hand. George watched it, training his focus not to waver as he remembered his father's words.

Turning it into his flesh five times, he whispered his plea for help. It omitted a barely noticeable blue glow that suddenly zipped out the dungeon window and across the night sky. That was the third tracking beacon he sent since he arrived, knowing full well his family should have received the other ones by now, but he could not help send another.

He would not sit there and do nothing while the bravest women he knew in the wizarding world thrashed in pain against the mahogany hardwood of the Malfoy's sitting room. He may not have been able to show emotion, but he was able to send for help. They were going to get saved; George knew it. He could feel it in his bones, in the damp air that his lungs brought into his chest. He could taste freedom on the tip of his tongue, and when George got him and Hermione out because of the 'girly little thing' on his finger, he would curse Ron into next week for mocking the linked rings their father bought the Weasleys.

The shouting grew louder above, and George realised how powerless he was, even with his ring. The feeling of the torture curse was excruciating. Dirty, dull razors digging into soft flesh, burning open wounds with salt water, breaking every bone in the body; these were all painful, but were nowhere near as agonising as the torture curse. And even after that, Hermione had fight in her.

It baffled him. He wanted to respond, to assure her that he was here to protect her. They both would have known it was a lie. George wished he could have done more. Instead, he had just pressed a kiss to her forehead. The action surprised him. He was not even sure why he had done it; it just felt necessary. As if his strength could be her comfort.

The footsteps stopped and the cell door smashed against the concrete. Slumping back against the wall and moving his sweater behind his back to conceal it, George watched, emotionless, as their captor snarled behind his mask and grabbed Hermione by the hair.

"Come on Mudblood," the death eater's words rang in his mind vividly, reminding him of how Hermione was roughly dragged out the door, "they're expecting you."

George was about to burst. He was forced to sit idly by as they brought her to the brink of death on the floor above his head. He could do nothing but listen to the ceiling shudder violently as she shook against the floor. It was a torture in its own, and if George's stoic resistance wavered in the slightest, it would give the bastards exactly what they wanted. They would probably leave him unharmed, focusing solely on abusing her, because of how badly it affected him.

In a vain attempt, he forced his attention on what would be waiting at home. George envisioned it with detail. The burrow rebuilt and lit up at his favourite time of year. A light dusting of snow blanketing the surrounding yard, the smell of his mother's famous Christmas dinner cooking in the oven, the Christmas tree twinkling in the dusk. He even saw the faces of his family around the table, with Harry next to Ron, and Hermione next to him. Everyone was happy and carefree. For a few minutes, George was too, but it was suddenly ripped away.

What the bloody hell was that?

Even a patented Weasley Wizard Wheezes daydream charm could not keep his attention off the upstairs when that shout came barreling through his thoughts. This one was different than the others. It was deeper and filled with something George nearly roared against, but before he could, the thrashing settle above him. It was over. It had to be. The thuds of footsteps, the smashing of bone against steps, and scraping of flesh against concrete was a sign of that.

The gated metal door burst open and George attempted to hide his impatience.

The masked demon threw Hermione into the cell, mumbled a small healing spell, and slammed the door. George counted to ten, waiting for complete silence before crawling across the floor.

He pulled her to him, much like he did when he first arrived, and brushed a damp strand of her hair off her face as she quivered in the aftershock of the spell. Draping his sweater over her, he took note of all her new injuries, letting out an angry growl out as he saw the bloody rags that covered her upper body. The word 'Mudblood,' carved into the flesh, went up the side of her ribs and the letters soaked through the fabric.

"It's over," Hermione whispered, still dazed from the pain as she whimpered from another forceful wave. He rubbed his thumb gently across her cheek and moved her to lay against him. Her head rested against his chest, snuggling closer into his heat while he cradled her close.

Her body trembled uncontrollably and George's heart clenched, vividly remembering the pain. "It's over now, George, right?" The staggered words trailed off and Hermione slipped into unconsciousness.

They had to get out of here and he had to do it soon. Her life depended on it.

* * *

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	4. Isolation

**Love and War  
Chapter Three**

Isolation

* * *

A long time passed and Hermione was yet to regain consciousness. The sunrise spilt through the two-inch thin barred window five times. With each cycle, the blazing light warmed the cell to feel like an overworked sauna, but when it set, their prison was blanketed in the chill of night. This day was to be no different.

Midday was upon them, and sweat dripped off their bodies, collecting in a small puddle around them. Despite the heat, Hermione still quivered, and her skin was like ice. George laid motionless as he held her; he refused to move, hoping to give her as much warmth as he could. George only moved to send out an hourly distress call, and though he sent three so far, there was no responding message. Add that atop the inability to wake Hermione up or even heal her properly, and George was left feeling utterly helpless.

Waiting for help that seemed would never come was exhausting. It was not like George had not tried to escape on his own. He examined every inch of the cell when the Death Eaters took Hermione the first time. George scoured every inch of the concrete, trying to find some sort of weakness, but came up empty handed. Without his wand, George had no way of fighting back. And when she came back, and all he could do was scoop her into his arms and let the finality of it all sink in.

George was stuck, and, more importantly, Hermione was stuck. It was pure desperation that caused him to cling to a hope which seemed further from his grasp with each passing second and it was rather demoralising. Prison was truly maddening, and he suddenly understood Sirius Black's mental instability upon escaping Azkaban.

Staring down at Hermione with mix of awe and worry, George wondered how she was still so sane. She was some sort of toy for their captors' sick demented pleasure and the very thought made him extremely nauseous. This place was hell and Hermione was here for two months longer than he. George had no idea how she was still alive, let alone still so fiercely determined to stand against them. This girl had a sort of conviction that was surprisingly tenacious.

What surprised him even more, however, was that the sadistic bastards had not come back for one of them. From the thrashing and screaming which bellowed from the room above, George assumed other Order members were of higher priority, and, as horrible as it sounded, he was actually quite thankful. He swallowed the lump of guilt in his throat as the thought passed him. It was awful and completely vile of him to wish harm on his fellow fighters, but Hermione finally given a chance to rest, and by the length of time she spent unconscious, George assumed this was the first time the dark wizards left her be.

They were both forgotten, allowed to waste away in the deafening sound of their combined breaths. If not for the masked demon with a pronounced double chin leaving a small plate of unappetizing slop and a glass of water by the door, he would have thought that this was the death eaters' ploy: have the isolation drive them to insanity. They were sentenced to become absolute nothingness within the blackness and it was strangely relieving.

In the isolation, he could show his emotions. He did not have to be stoic. He could worry and care about Hermione and plan their escape, not that he had made much progress. But here, in the vast nothing that was this solitude, George could let out all his admiration and respect shine through. He could protect her, treat her wounds as best he could, and hold her close, something he found rather comforting. This devotion that formed confused him but he wanted to fight for it and experience it with the same level of tenacity that Hermione possessed. The very idea of Hermione leaving his arms left George incomplete in the cold emptiness, and despite the selfish desire to keep her close, George would gladly walk this life alone if it meant she would be safe.

When the sunlight started to ease away from the window, letting the thick stuffy air a chance to cool, George finally felt Hermione stir and the concern stung at him. The fat bastard had just left for the first and only time that evening, so George was not worried about them taking her again; he knew if anything that would be tomorrow. What worried him were her conscious waking thoughts.

Hermione had just been horribly beaten. Fuck, vile words were carved into her flesh, how was he supposed to reel in his hatred when all he wanted to do was dismember each one of them for laying a hand on her? All he could register was this need to protect her, even if it was from her own emotions, and the feeling surged through his veins like a blazing fire. How exactly was he supposed to comfort her after all this?

* * *

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	5. Outrage

**Love and War**  
 **Chapter Four  
**  
Outrage

* * *

"That's my son!" A deep voice echoed off the walls inside the Order of the Phoenix headquarters, causing everyone in the meeting room to jump. The assembly had lasted two hours longer than usual, but unlike the usual meetings held in this chamber, the Order members clearly divided on this topic. The army was split into two groups. One group, predominately red-haired members of the Weasley family along with several others, sat on one side of the room while the other half of the Order stood opposite them. Neither side said anything further, as the anger of Arthur Weasley's cry lingered in the air.

No one really knew what to say. All that could be done was stew in the silence and pray for someone else to break the tension. A task that normally would have been accomplished by the topic of discussion: George Weasley. After what felt like an eternity, Kingsley Shacklebolt, who sat opposite Arthur finally cleared his throat.

"Arthur, I am aware you are upset," he began cautiously, not wanting to dwell on the subject any further. It was clear where he stood; sending the whole Order to retrieve a captured member was idiotic if not suicidal. They needed numbers against Voldemort's army which was rapidly growing. No one knew when this war would be over, and until then, risking members of unreasonable size was just ludicrous. "I just want you to put this into perspective. We have a spy in his ranks. We can find out some information, create a plan, and send in two of our most cunning to rescue him. If we risk us all, then think of what an advantage _you-know-who_ will have."

"That's what you said when they took Granger," Fred Weasley's voice bellowed from behind his father as an evident fury plastered his features. "They took Granger, and where is she exactly? Where was that spy with information about her? She has been missing two fucking months, and still no word from your _precious spy_." Fred spat, as he began pacing up and down the length of the table.

"It's a suicide mission, all of us heading into one place at the same time. We need numbers against _you-know-who_. We need numbers to protect Harry when he gets back." Kingsley continued. "Give my source time, just a few more days, before we do anything drastic."

"A few more days?" Fred nearly fell midstep as he spun around to face Kingsley, "It's been a week, and we know exactly where he is. He has sent fifty beacons since he has been captured!"

"Yes, we are aware of his location, but we have no idea of what the interior of the Malfoy Manor contains." Kingsley gestured to the exterior reconnaissance photos of the manor on the board behind him. Fred watched a photo of Scabior as he walked through the heavy black doors, showing a small sliver of the foyer, but no more of the interior was known. "There could be all sorts of unexpected force behind that stronghold; we need to think rationally about this before we rush into a deathtrap. We wouldn't be able to help anyone, let alone George, if we are all dead."

"How many days are we talking about?" Arthur said with a reluctant sigh.

"Dad, you're joking right?" But it was as if Fred's words we not even heard.

"Two days, maximum. If I can't get a hold of my source by then, myself and Remus will go." Remus nodded as Kingsley spoke, assuring his acceptance of the mission.

"I can't believe you are even considering this," Fred continued, but again to no prevail. "Please, tell me you're joking."

"Two days?" Arthur asked after a moment of contemplation.

"Two days," Kingsley confirmed, and Fred Weasley stormed out, slamming the door behind him so hard, that the walls shuddered from the force.

* * *

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	6. Breakdown

**Love and War**  
 **Chapter Five**   
  
Breakdown

* * *

Hermione groaned as waves of fire singed across her battered body. Her movements caused the gashes on her skin to stretch, ripping open slightly and allowing her blood to flow freely. She felt it drip down her side; the liquid iron ran over sore bruises and cuts, leaving a blistering trail of agony. All she could feel was pain, but as the seconds slowly passed by, a strange new sensation registered in her mind: arms. Strong arms at that. Arms that seemed to tighten around her waist when she swayed backwards.

The very moment she catalogued this strange, yet reassuring, security, a wave of red-haired recognition blasted her thoughts and the little sanity she had left started to wane gradually from her grasp. George Weasley was captured. George Weasley was captured and had been holding her all this time. George Weasley was captured, had held her all this time, and was now steadying her weak movements as she attempted to get up.

She could hardly believe the reality of this, but with the way his thumbs rubbed soothing circles on the bare skin of her forearms, sending an unexpected flutter through her, she hardly cared about anything else. It was as if she was finally feeling again and remembering all she had missed. The kindness that George nurtured her with, the same type of tenderness which she had been deprived of for so long, it made her feel all she buried deep. Hermione's time spent with the Death Eaters taught her the strength of indifference, but this warmth and support George brought, shocked her senses. Instead of numbing her emotion further, she felt everything. And, oh what a feeling it was.

Hermione was not clueless. She knew very well what had been missing the past months, but until that instant had not comprehended the importance of it. The way George kept her close, his grip tight yet gentle, almost afraid she would break if he let go; it was electrifying. The idea of removing herself from his grasp was unbearable as if their embrace was the only line to humanity left. And he was right there with her. The physical connection between them conveyed all their unspoken emotions.

"Easy there," George whispered as she flopped back with a whimper, resting her head just below his chin. Her breathing timed with his movements instantly, and her body relaxed into George's chest. "I know this is probably a stupid question, but how are you feeling?"

"Like I went into a moshpit and lived." A soft snicker escaped her bruised lips while a sly smile tugged at the corners, but her croak was far from funny. The hoarse tone was pained with stifled screams of agony for so long that it caused Hermione's voice to crack as she spoke. "I'm sure it looks worse than it is."

"I'm sorry, a _what_ -pit?" His amused tone reminded Hermione of home. All the times George and his twin had cheered her up flashed in her mind. When the twins pranked Draco after he teased her in her third year; when they did everything in their power to make her smile after Ron was with Lavender during her sixth year; or how George danced with her at Bill's wedding. Hermione remembered how happy she was when she was smiling with the twins. How the security she felt twirling around the dance floor with George was like no other she had felt before. She believed that she was safe with him that night, which made her departure after the wedding even more challenging.

All she wanted now was to go back to that feeling, the one she had before she left with Ron and Harry. And, if that meant continuing with the light-hearted conversation in this drearily dreadful hole then by all means, as long as it kept the smile on her face, she would. She just hoped she could, if only for a moment, forget what had been happening for the past two and half months. If anyone could accomplish that task, George could.

"It's a muggle thing," Hermione responded flatly, as she moved forward to reach for the water glass at their feet. The instant she shifted, the cold came. She was gone from his grasp, and she felt empty. She needed to have his heat against her and was relieved when he guided her to lie back again. Hermione laughed again when she saw the confusion in George's face but this time, the rumbling joy in her chest was a little heavier. 

The quick stretching of the skin caused a violent stabbing in the side of her body, and she immediately brought a hand to brace her ribs. Reality forced its way back to the forefront, and Hermione felt foolish for thinking she could forget. Her dirty fingers clutched at her side, feeling the scabs of partially healed carvings under the callused pads, and a sob suddenly shook her entire body.

" _Filthy Mudblood,"_ her captor's voice taunted her thoughts as the memories rushed to the forefront, _"So you remember what you are."_ With another rickety breath, the fear of defeat sunk in. Not only had they tortured her, but they also deformed her. If she and George got out of there, she would still be ridiculed by this disfigurement for the rest of her life. The rest of her bloody life.

She felt hideous like a troll with half his face melted or a leper from the biblical tales her mother told her as a child. "No," she whispered, the abrupt awareness of everything filled her with a heavy weighted dread. The truth was clear as day in her mind: the Death Eaters indeed succeeded, she was finally broken.

For the first time since she arrived, Hermione cried, the tears of trepidation and terror dripping down her cheeks and off her chin in abundance. She felt like she was falling, but as the two strong arms tightened around her, she was alright with the sensation. Allowing her face to bury in the safe comfort that was missing since she left the Burrow, Hermione realised that she was not alone.

"Shh," George whispered against her hair, the soaked cotton of his green t-shirt cooling her cheeks. "They couldn't do anything to make you any less beautiful." Hermione was sure that George Weasley mastered occlumency at that moment, because her darkest hatred for her body, the feeling of blade cutting flesh, recalled in her mind, and yet he knew. She cried harder, knowing that George heard the laughter cackling from her memories and all the harsh words which burned into her forever.

"Th-They, oh," she sputtered, her voice barely audible and muffled by fabric. She may have broken down, but Hermione still refused to let the Death Eaters know about it. She stubbornly smothered her sobs into silent shakes, concealing them in the sieve of George's shirt. She clung to the cloth, balling it in her fists and tugging him closer, anchoring her to the only tangible comfort which remained. "George, I-I can't. Don't let them, please."

"I'm here," he promised, pulling her further into him, his hand resting in her hair as he rocked her back and forth. "And I'm not going anywhere."

They stayed like that for hours, the sunlight turning into the silver blackness of night, causing a deep chill to surround them. George wrapped the forgotten sweater around Hermione, whose face still glistened with tears. While her heavy snivels settled into light sniffles, her hands kept his shirt in a death grip, refusing to let go, fearing the lonely solitude that she suffered before.

Her breaths were deep, inhaling the smell of reassurance that George was dosed in. Each gasp she took allowed her to forget the pain, reminded her of happiness, and brought her to a dizzying lightheaded state of calm. It was like smelling petrol or chloroform, and she assumed that was the reason the aroma was so addictive. George was a drug, a drug to someone who was so deprived of human contact for so long.

Hermione tried to convince herself that it was not anything more, that the very idea of the Death Eaters taking him instead of her only scared her because of friendship rather than some deeper emotion. That the horror had nothing to do with the refuge she always felt with him. That her vulnerable state was probably affecting her sense of logic and that she imagined what she felt was more than platonic.

She knew that the longer she got high off of George, the worse this need for him would become. He was the only one who experienced this with her. The only one to ever truly understand, and whether she wanted to or not, she could never let him go now, even if they were freed. It was why she remained in his embrace. 

You see George Weasley had become her lifeline and Hermione would not let go of life just yet.

"George," she finally broke the silence that overwhelmed them, evidence of her earlier weeping lingering in the rough tremble of her voice.

"Hmm," his fingers tenderly combing through her hair as she readjusted her head, nuzzling her face under his chin. "Don't worry I still got you, Hermione." The soft timber of his voice soothed her in a way that was so natural as if made to speak just to her and all Hermione could think of it was how sensible debating was completely illogical at this moment.

"Thank you," her fists finally released the wrinkled fabric before succumbing to slumber. As she drifted off, she vaguely recalled his lips pressing against her forehead, whispering promises of freedom she both craved and dreaded.

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	7. Escapism

**Love and War  
Chapter Six**

Escapism

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It was eerily quiet. There were no screams, no thrashing, no distant sobs. The mice refused to squeak leaving nothing to echo off the dungeon walls. It was so silent George could actually hear the soft wind blow across the thin cell window but other than that there was absolutely nothing. Even the big bastard had not come that day.

It was as if a silencing charm had been cast, leaving George and Hermione with nothing but a blank soundtrack. Not that George wanted to hear the tortured screams above, or even see the fat masked Death Eater, but some indication that he was not going deaf would have been welcomed. And to top it all off, Hermione had not woken up yet.

George was alone and responsible for the witch he held in his arms. Every once in a while, he would shake her awake, helping the half-conscious girl take a sip of water and a bite of food, but Hermione would always fall asleep right after. She was so drained, so exhausted, and he blamed himself for not protecting her. The thunderous crashes from her session with the enemy still plagued his mind.

If only he fought harder, maybe then he would have been able to stop it. Maybe, he could have saved her. George was helpless, and with this vast emptiness, he was going crazy. He vowed that he would get them to safety but, his initial plan was slowly failing. The guilt mixing with the silence was driving him off into a place he never knew his mind could go, but he forced himself to reverse.

Still, he sent beacons, keeping them to a minimum of three. He dreaded Death Eater interception. It had been a day since Hermione's breakdown and adding the time since his arrival, meant two weeks of capture without a word from the Order. He had to start facing the possibility that help was just out of his reach. The more he thought about it, the more he came to understand the ridiculousness of his plan.

To assume the whole Order would barge through the doors just to save him was idiotically hopeful. It was not like he was Harry Potter, the golden boy, the only hope for _you-know-who_ 's downfall. The more numbers the Order had, the better of a chance they had against the growing army of Death Eaters. If the Order came here now, those numbers would be significantly smaller.

George just hoped that he could figure a way to get both him and Hermione out without magic. Hermione could not last that much longer down here, let alone another round of torture upstairs, especially after she let so much of her emotions out. She was much weaker now, and he could feel it as she pressed herself closer to him. All they had was each other. They were bound together now, this cell, this event, caused that. Even when they did get out of here, it was just the two of them and, to be honest, he was not that unhappy about it.

Of course, he was unhappy about being stuck in a dungeon, where all you were fed was grey slop and water once a day, and the only activity was torture, but he was glad that he was not alone. He was glad that if they got out, he could be there for Hermione. That should be she come to him; he could just hold her and not have to talk about it as she cried. Explaining this pain was not something that could be done, and he was sure Ron was going to try and pry it out of her.

 _Ron,_ his mind spat the name like venom, and he pulled her tighter. Knowing that Ron was the reason she was in here drove him mad. She was protecting Ron and Harry when she was captured. Ron was his brother, yes, and he was glad that Ron was safe, but George had to control his body from shaking with anger as he thought of him. Maybe, it was jealousy, or it was a sudden need to protect Hermione, but George was angry. George did not have a clue what he was feeling, but he did know that his younger brother for the reason this gorgeous woman laid broken in his arms. And when he saw Ron, someone would have to put him in a body bind to stop him from going postal.

A letter that is all Ron and Harry sent. She was captured, all alone, and just a letter. Ron knew what they would do to a Muggle-born witch. Anyone with less than half of a brain knows what they would do to a Muggle-born witch, especially one who was close to Harry Potter. George was surprised Hermione was still alive.

He brushed some of the hair from her face, unable to think of her not surviving. A stern determination blanketed his features as he watched her face scrunch in slumber; if Ron was not going to protect her than George would. He swore he would find a way to get out, and when they did, no one would ever harm her again. He pressed his lips to her forehead, and closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking advantage of the unexpected quiet.

The instant his eyelids drooped shut, the sound of footsteps boomed through the corridor and forced them open. George prayed for fatty to be coming with food, but after registering the soft click of boot heels instead of the heavy dragging he was used to, George prepared. Sitting up instantly, George placed himself in between Hermione and the door, waiting for whoever it was to appear in between the bars.

He did not have to wait long. Suddenly, very familiar platinum blonde hair was hanging through the cracks of the gated door. A steel expression unreadable behind grey coloured eyes which pierced through the darkness.

"You don't have much time," the youngest Malfoy said, before drawing out two wands, and sliding them through the cell door. Immediately, George crawled for them. He grabbed his own and Hermione's as he eyed Draco with suspicion. "They finally left, all of them except the snatchers. I've been waiting since Granger got here for this, but it never happened. I can lead you to the tunnel out, but I can't take you any further, or I'll be compromised."

George looked over at Hermione before his eyes widened in realisation. Draco Malfoy was a spy. Draco Malfoy was going to get them out and to the safety of the Order. This was their only shot, and he knew better than to dawdle. Giving Draco a quick nod, George pulled his sweater over Hermione, keeping her body warm, and slipped her wand into her jeans pocket. He gave her a shake, but when she just groaned a little, he knew her eyes would not open. He pulled her over to the cell door, waiting as Draco unlocked it, and carried her out into the corridor.

Draco led them through the dungeon maze quickly, coming to a stop in front of a white stone statue. Every sculpture they had passed in the house was somehow related to Slytherin House, except this one. Two ivory peacocks stood frozen before him, one with wings spread wide, and the other nestled at its feathered companion's feet. Draco tapped his wand on the taller bird, mumbling an unheard password before it revealed a secret passage.

"Take this all the way to the fork then turn left," he said quickly, helping George slip a backpack onto his shoulders. "There is a tent, food, and blankets to help you camp. Get out of the forest before you attempt to call the Order or _they_ will know." George nodded again, wordlessly eying Draco for signs of treachery. "If they found out I did this I would be dead, so hurry up."

"Thanks," George whispered, and Draco nodded before placing himself in front of the entrance waiting for it to be hidden once more. With that, George made his way down the channel with Hermione placed securely in his arms. Each step he took led him closer to freedom, and all George could do was thank Merlin for answering his silent cries for help. When he looked back briefly, he saw the Peacocks hide his way, plunging the route in darkness. This was it; they would be free.

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	8. News

 

**Love and War**   
**Chapter 7**

**News**

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The castle which acted as a headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix buzzed noise. It was not something uncommon. In fact with the amount of people residing within the structure, it would be uncommon for there to be no noise at all. All Fred Weasley could do, as he sat before his bedroom window, was tune the racket out. He stared out across the horizon, praying to a higher power, magic or not, to show him how to save his brother.

Much like his twin George, Fred was confined. Yes, it was not a cell but, his mother did station a guard at every exit. Okay, maybe he was exaggerating, he certainly was not getting tortured, but he did feel like a five-year-old. It was as if he was grounded for some prank he had pulled with George. But instead of being named a 'punishment', his mother was 'trying to protect him'. It was the kind nature of the task which fueled Fred's anger the most.

Sure, he was livid at his mother, at the Order, and even with his inability to assist the matter, but he was mostly upset with his father. It was so easy for Arthur to agree to wait in issuing a rescue mission. And now it was for Fred's own good to just wait out that decision? How could his father even process the idea of waiting when the only thought in Fred's head was a not very well planned plan of rescue? Every second Fred envisioned himself dramatically storm into the Malfoy Manor and getting his twin out of there. And, that is precisely why his mother basically imprisoned him. The smart witch even took his wand away, fearing he would apparate. To be honest, he would have.

Fred was contemplating climbing out the window and shimmying down the three-floor high drain pipe when he heard the frantic shouts of his mother echoing up the walls of the many stairways. A nervous fear shot through him as he remembered the recent collapse of the burrow and, with freshly sharpened war reflexes from completing his Order training, he burst through the door. The will to protect his family fueled his speed as he raced down the many stairs; the guards were too slow to stop him. He got half way down the second last flight when his mother's words became clearer, but he could not have just heard her say,

"George escaped!" She shouted, and Fred froze, his hand lightly hovering over the railing. "Fred! _Fred!_ Come to the kitchen!" A soft smile graced his lips as he shook himself into action and entered the kitchen. The sight before him was something he had not seen since before Voldemort's return. The broad, toothy smile his mother had while his father spun her around the room with joy. Well, that made this seemingly endless wait completely worth it.

"Mum," Fred asked, his lips twitching upward with hopeful anticipation.

"Kingsley heard from the spy," Arthur's voice hummed through bits of his hearty laughter. He set his wife down back onto her feet before turning his attention to Fred. "He managed to lead George out of the manor with another captive. Kingsley just got the news. He is making his way through the woods until he is outside the detection ring before he apparates."

Fred almost fainted from happiness. His small grin finally broke out into a beaming smile. His brother was coming back. Thank Merlin for that ' _precious spy'_.

"My little boy, he's coming home to us." Molly's joyful tears glistened as she hugged Arthur tighter. Fred rocked back on his heels slightly, drinking in the moment, savouring the first shred of good news in a while. George was not dead. George was coming home. It was as if everything was coming together. Now, there was just one last family member to hear from.

"Did the spy say who the other captive was?" Fred asked after a few moments. "And how long until he would be outside the detection ring?"

"Well, the ring is quite large. He has to make his way completely outside the forest first, which may take a day or two, but then it is safe to apparate." Arthur answered, handing Fred a celebratory glass of fire whisky.

"And the other captive?" Fred pushed.

"Kingsley could not make out the name in the message, but we have to prepare an infirmary. They both could be injured." Arthur gestured to Molly, who nodded. She was humming to herself as she left the kitchen calling for Ginny. Fred started mentally calculating all the potions needed up in the infirmary. He would definitely need to help.

"You think it could be Granger?"

"Maybe, she has been gone for so long." Hesitating slightly, Arthur cleared his throat from the burn of the whisky, "Two months in this war is a lifetime." He cast his gaze downwards to the amber liquid, swirling it momentarily as if he was carefully wording his next few sentences. "S-she might be gone from this world, Fred. And if she isn't then, she must be in a great deal of pain. Two months of capture..."

Grasping his father's message as the words trailed off, Fred nodded slowly. He had not been tortured, fortunately, and was not sure how to relate to the pain. He was not entirely sure how he would handle it himself. He was sure George experienced it by now and shuddered at the thought. But, George was not captured nearly as long as Hermione.

With a barely noticeable wince, Fred swallowed another sip of his whisky. Hermione was family. She had been family since Ron's first year with that stupid stone business, and will always be family. It was a promise he and George made each other when they saw her crying after Ron was with Lavender. It was a promise they vocalised to her when George found her crying after her parents' memories were modified. The Weasleys were a big family, and Hermione Granger would always be a Weasley. She was his sister, and Fred had an obligation to look out for her. And the last thing he told her was how she looked like a blueberry at Bill's wedding.

Fred felt like an ass for it now, but at the time she laughed. She actually laughed at the insult, and it was his intent. Sure, she was all giggly from dancing with George, but she still let a little chuckle escape her lips at his wisecrack. George always said that Hermione never laughed enough, but she did then.

' _Merlin, she probably would never laugh again if she did come home alive,'_ Fred thought. With a frown he swirled his whisky, trying to avoid the enviable thought: he almost hoped she had died to prevent the pain. The very thought made him feel guilty and he immediately started thinking of ways to rectify the very notion of her death. If she was coming home, he would help her. He was one of the only people talented enough to do it. He could make potions, he could fix wounds. Hell, he was a better healer than Madam Pomfrey when it came down to it. Sure, she was a healer and qualified, but considering how many ridiculous wounds he had fixed during the experimentation of pranks George and he went through. Fred would fix this.

"Still, it may be her right?" The tone of his voice was grim, but the hope which embodied his words rung, like one thousand bells in the air. Another member of his family alive and well; it was a chant that echoed in his mind. Plus, he was sure George would be stressing about her when he came home, and Fred was not certain if he would be able to handle a combination of guilt and repressed emotions from his twin brother.

"It may be." Arthur agreed as they both finished their glasses of whisky in one gulp.

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	9. Wilderness

 

**Love and War**   
**Chapter 8**

**Wilderness**

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For George, getting out of the manor was quite easy. Almost too easy, even while carrying an unconscious Hermione in his arms. The tunnel was dark, curvy and long with a lot of stones to trip over, but it led them into the heart of the forest surrounding the grounds. So, when George exited from a secluded cave, the sunlight bathing his face in a well-deserved glow while the birds sang songs of victory, he felt as if the world was his for the taking. The freedom he gripped tightly in his hands now was so much sweeter since there were no snatchers stationed outside the crevice's opening.

A sigh of relief escaped his cracking dry lips before George began his journey through the woods; pushing himself to get as much ground between them and the manor as possible before nightfall. Hours passed, and still, George hiked, lucky to avoid running into a single sentient soul, but with the lack of food in his system and weeks of living in a hole, he tired quickly.

The beads of sweat dripped off his brow, his shirt soaking with evidence of his fatigue, and still he hiked. His feet never faltered against the hard dirt, even with the many roots buckling upwards. His arms never hung lower, even with Hermione's weight straining his drained muscles. But most importantly, his eyelids never closed. He never, not once, lost his focus, because still, he hiked. And when the moon was finally visible above the tree tops, George had managed to get almost halfway through the dense wilderness.

Coming to a rest at a small brook, George nearly collapsed on the ground. His breaths were deep and rapid, his arms were aching and sore, and his eyes darted everything, ensuring their safety. It was then he allowed himself to take it all in. This place was far too beautiful to be surrounding the darkest dwelling from which he just escaped.

The water hummed gently as it flowed down over the rocks, while the silver light of the night shimmered off the surface and blanketed all that was not covered by the tree's shadowy canopy. The cool breeze brushed against his damp skin, almost caressing him with its gentle blow, and George let out a deep long breath. It was an isolation but entirely different from before. Being in this nature, experiencing this freedom, relishing the calm quiet; this was bliss.

He let his eyes close for a moment, allowing the forest to wash over him in waves of peace until he felt Hermione shiver in his arms. George snapped his attention back to her, gazing down at her still unconscious form as she snuggled closer into his chest. A smile graced his lips for the first time since he felt the sun. As George brushed a strand of her hair off her face, his thumb lingered on her cheek. Then he remembered why he was doing this. He did it; he had gotten them out. They were going home.

With his second wind coming on strong, George sprang into action, setting up the tent and leaving Hermione rest on the couch, after treating some of her more serious injuries. Circling the tent in three different loops, George muttered the incantations; creating three rings of wards to ensure an impenetrable shield. He used the best deflection wards, some he learned at Hogwarts and some that he and Fred crafted. Once he had finished, he leant back on his heels, admiring his work before heading back to the tent.

Hermione had stirred again when he entered. Her eyes fluttered softly, but not opening fully, while her body twitched slightly on the couch and George immediately rushed over. He knelt beside the sofa, resting his forearm above her head and running his hand through her locks. He whispered to her, urging her to open her eyes, assuring her she wanted to see the sight.

She let out a soft hum of contentment, moving her head closer into the heat of George's hand, her lips shyly curving upwards. His lips mimicked hers before kissing her forehead and running his thumb across her cheek once more. She was coming back to him, awake and alert, but all he could do was wait. Her eyes fluttered again, but this time they opened slowly. Her cinnamon orbs locking with his blue ones as the confusion flooded her features.

"Am I dreaming?" She whispered, bringing her hand up to touch his cheek. She ran her fingers across his beard and down his neck, coming to rest her palm on his chest. George's heart sped up under the heat, and he grinned.

"Thank Merlin you're awake," He let out a shaky breath, his hand still stroking through her hair. He took a moment to study her, noting the evident exhaustion in her eyes along with the rickety movements of her frail fingers. He was concerned, knowing that sleeping for so many days was just unnatural, but given her history, he was just glad to see her conscious.

"George," Hermione's voice was raspy, unused, much like it had been before her breakdown. It was a haunted voice, a ghost of the happy tone she once used at the Burrow. It was a genuine sign that she was broken, a sign that fuelled George's determination.

"Hmm?"

"Am I on a couch?"

"Yes," he said in between his gentle chuckle, watching as her brows furrowed with slight confusion.

"Wh-what?" She stuttered, attempting to sit up and glance around the tent. She flopped back down into the cushions, her quick movements making her dizzy. Her eyes rolled backwards in a fleeting second and George's instantly face fell into a frown of worry. He moved his hand underneath her head, pulling her up a bit to rest against the arm of the couch. When her eyes deglazed and focused back on George's face, she spoke again. "How, the Death Eat—"

"You don't mention those bastards." George's stern voice interrupted her, "They won't ever harm you again." Her eyes widened slightly in shock and George let out a sigh. "I'm sorry, I probably should explain, but first you're going to eat something."

He stood from his crouch and made his way to the little kitchenette. He had to hand it to Malfoy; the tent was pretty perfect. It was large enough for one couple, containing one bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, and a small kitchenette which was fully stocked. The rations looked as if they could last for several weeks, but George did not plan to stay in the forest for that long.

He made tea, soup, and small sandwiches, hoping the food would be light enough for Hermione to handle after such a long time of barely eating anything, and floated the plates to the coffee table. Helping Hermione into a sitting position, George watched as her eyes wandered around the tent, scanning her surroundings. They both forced some tuna sandwiches down their throats, hoping to ease the hungry which burned their insides, but it was in silence.

"George?" Hermione's voice was a little less hoarse after finishing her soup. She sipped on her tea, watching him intently, and waited for an explanation.

"Feeling a little better?" He asked, taking a sip from his own cup. She nodded weakly but remained in a soundless patience. George sighed, setting his cup down before turning back to face Hermione, his face glowing with delight. "We got out."

"I can see that, but how?" Her smile was breathtaking, and George felt lighter with each second that he gazed into her eyes. The amber warmed his blue pools as watched her face blanket with several emotions. Confusion, joy, pain, gratitude, and something which could only be defined as undefined.

"Draco."

"Draco?" She half choked as she gasped in shock.

"Yes, shocking isn't it?" She was still flabbergasted as she sputtered for a moment.

"As in Draco Malfoy?" Her face puckered as her mouth gaped in shock. She was almost fish like with her facial expressions.

"He's a spy for the Order, from what I've gathered." He said, taking another sip of his tea to stifle his chuckle.

"George, can you just give me more of a thorough retelling please?" He heaved another sigh, running a hand nervously through his hair.

"It was dead quiet today, no screams, no curses. Nothing." His eyes gazed at the tent wall, fixating on its canvas as if he was going to a faraway place. In truth he had locked this memory in the depths of his mind, hoping to forget, but he knew that was just hopeful thinking. He could never forget. _They_ could never forget.

Hermione placed a hand on top of his, the comforting warmth of her soft skin sent shivers up his spine, and he lowered his focus to the circles which she drew upon his flesh. He smiled slightly as he looked up, his eyes meeting hers. Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, he continued. "And Draco showed up, slipped us our wands, broke us out, and led us to this secret passage. Very Hogwarts' if you ask me. The tunnel ended right the centre of forest off the grounds. You were out cold for most of it."

"Draco?" She asked again, still not entirely comfortable with the idea of a Malfoy helping out the Order, let alone a muggleborn, but George did not acknowledge the question with his doubts. He agreed with the suspicions, thinking it would be like a game of cat and mouse now, but he did not care. Anything that got them out was a blessing, even if it was the sneaky ferret.

"I reckon we're about a day away from the edge of the forest where it is secure to apparate to the safe house. Until then," he gestured to their surroundings, "We are camping." His proud tone caused a huge grin to erupt on Hermione's face. The happiness did not fully reach her eyes, but it was still big enough that it satisfied George.

"We're out? We are actually out?" She asked excitement finally seeping into her voice, as tears rolled down her cheeks. He immediately reached over and brushed them away, beaming with her. Her smile never faded, only grew larger.

"Well, sort of. We haven't left the grounds yet. But it's not as 'Malfoy-ish' here. It's quite nice." His hands cupped her face, his thumbs running across her cheeks as he continued to wipe away her tears, and she leant into his touch.

"So, I really am on a couch then?" At this, he laughed. For the first time in a while, he laughed and when he heard Hermione's gentle chuckle his heart stopped. But in a right way. It was as if drawing out that musical snicker from her was what he was born to do. It was as if making her happy was his calling. He managed to get out a 'yes' in between his laughter and she pulled him into a tight embrace. "Thank you," her whisper vibrated against his chest and his arms wrapped around her frame, pulling her closer.

"Hermione," The soft timber of his voice dropped slightly, highlighting his seriousness and she hummed in response. "I never would have left you behind. Not then and not now, that's a promise." He felt her nod before a very vocal yawn emitted. "You should rest."

Attempting to stand on her bandaged ankle, Hermione let out a barely audible hiss and immediately collapsed into George's side. He easily lifted her and carried her to the bedroom, placing her on the bed and pulling the covers over her. His lips pressed gently against her forehead and, mumbling a goodnight; he grabbed a blanket and pillow before heading out to the couch.

"George," she murmured as he reached the flap of the bedroom. He turned around to see her sitting up, watching him intently. "Please, stay." He hesitated before turning around and removing his dirty shirt and pants and climbing into the bed next to her. She curled onto his side, nuzzling her face against his chest as he ran his fingers up and down the length of her forearm. It was as if she belonged there, her frame forming into his perfectly as her breaths deepened and she drifted off. He placed another tender kiss to her forehead, pulling her closer to him, before joining her in slumber.

' _I could sure get used to this.'_ Was his last waking thought.

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	10. Reflections

**Love and War Chapter 9  
Reflections**

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The early morning chill swooped through the overgrown bush surrounding Malfoy Manor. A mist had fallen over the forest during the night, cloaking its inhabitants within a thick veil of invisibly. Howls of hungry wolves chasing after their prey's soft pattering steps echoed through the night. Hoots of wild owls lurking in the trees' low set branches kept a close eye on the nearly nonexistent forest floor. The rushing sweeps of air under fairy wings dusted the woodland with an intoxicating type of magic. And amongst the wild, a small canvassed tent sat, hidden by spells, wards, and mist, left to exist in a blissful solitude.

The clock had just struck three thirty when George Weasley's eyes suddenly snapped open, immediately categorizing every potential danger. He scanned the darkness thoroughly like an x-ray; his eyes rounding the blackness in a way similar to the one he used to within the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. The path was simple, beginning on one side of the dark and moving across to the other in his state of weary consciousness. This was what he had to do to ensure his and Hermione's survival.

A pattern of hardly sleeping as he prepared for whatever new threat waited. A way in which he could care for Hermione's injuries. A guide of constant awareness set to keep them alive. A blueprint he was determined to stick by. It was familiar, something he had done every couple of hours, and although he could have slept soundly until the sun peaked over the tree tops, it was a guide that had, apparently, transferred with him to this new safe dwelling.

Safe. George had loved that word all his life. Security brought a surprising harmonious sensation to the normal dangerous demeanour which George revelled in. It took over his soul when it existed around him; elating him to this peaceful paradise. He felt it when he avoided his mother's wrath for playing a prank on Percy, as he hid in the secret alcoves of Hogwarts' while narrowly eluding Mrs. Norris' watchful eye, during his flight into the bright sun after escaping Umbridge's iron rule and when he first joined the Order of the Phoenix. It was a feeling he nearly forgot the meaning to amidst the terror of war. But, as the darkness of the dusked terrain swirled with the dim glow of moonlight, the events of the prior day played before him and definition came back.

Only then did he register the soft fluffy pillow below his head and the scruffy wool blanket which covered him. He realized the wind, which carried the scent of elder wood, was cooling the air and allowing it to contrast against the burning body heat beneath the blanket cocoon. The warmth of the sleeping witch in his arms, her touch sending an electrical current humming through him, drew him into the comfort of consciousness. Only then was George reminded of their new, heavenly, reality: freedom.

Even breathing in the fresh air felt good. It tasted like the past before the war. The lingering flavour of Quidditch matches, house cup victories, successful pranks, and warm summers with family doused his palate with a sugar rush of sweetness. These times of happiness, the ones he cherished most, not just to bring forth the protection of a full grown patronus, but to steer him through the darkest of times, eased him through his strife. Happy tears stung behind his eyes as all the cheerful moments before the hardships of battle, along with the few joyful ones that mingled with the present war, poured through him.

With a sigh, George rolled onto his side, taking in the features of Hermione's form. Like the many nights he spent with Hermione before, George watched and noted of all her actions; studying her, the same way she studied her books at Hogwarts. The deep breaths that filled her lungs now were much steadier as she snuggled closer to his chest. The curves of her face were fuller and bright as more colour tinted her cheeks. The pained expression, which her features once scrunched into, was now gone.

She looked calm. So peaceful with her cream coloured skin glowing in the soft light from the moon as it cascaded through the tent window. Her wild chestnut curls were tamed to frame her face which rested against both the pillow and his shoulder. Merlin, she was not just calm, she was absolutely, terrifyingly, breathtaking.

Running a thumb across her cheek he smiled noticing the purple bruises had cleared up slightly in her slumber. A few days of rubbing bruise balm and all the marks would disappear fully. It was a relief to know that some of the physical reminders would vanish from Hermione's flesh; the less visible signs, the less pity people would give her. His fingers continued to trail down her arm, feeling the tingles of her essence rush through him, before moving up the side of her torso where the Death Eater's branded her.

Anger furrowed his brows, knitting them so close together his vision blurred slightly. How dare they mark her, especially with such vile filth? This souvenir would take the longest move on from, not just emotionally but physically. The skin had hardly healed. It still dripped with fresh blood and after all the time that passed George assumed the wound would have scabbed further. He was beginning to worry that it would never be fully mended. And even if it could, the words of hate would scar her flesh forever; white jagged letters spelling out the disgusting falsehood that Hermione probably believed. She was the smartest, strongest and most beautiful witch George had ever seen but because of this lesion, his Hermione would be weakened.

 _His Hermione._ Merlin, he liked the sound of that. Not once had George Weasley expected to wake up next to Hermione Granger. His little brother's affections were always a constant reminder in his mind, but now. Merlin help him, George hardly cared for Ronald's attraction to Hermione. Those feelings had lost all meaning when George's eyes locked on her helpless form laying still on the dark cell floor; when he held her as she shook in fear and pain; when he carried her through the forest and tended to her injuries. No, Ron had no claim over her, not after he left her to the hands of the Death Eaters.

Expelling a calming breath, George relaxed a little. Ron Weasley may have been incredibly dimwitted but he would never purposely put Hermione through this torture. So, George reluctantly shifted the blame to those bastards. And those bastards would pay with their lives. George would personally find each and every one of them, rip them apart limb from limb while relishing in the taste of their blood as it filled the air. The Order's sweet victory would mean the ultimate defeat of the Death Eaters', but it was not a sufficient enough justice. Death was justice.

 _Whoa there Georgie,_ his twin's voice boomed against the walls of his mind.  _Don't lose your head now._ Although being away from Fred for so long pained him, George still felt completely connected to his brother. So connected that George knew the words which mentally chastised him had been the exact ones Fred chose. George was getting caught up in his anger, something both Fred and himself would not let get the better of him again. The last time resulted in a perfectly played painful prank on the entire Slytherin House. He needed to calm down so he could process all the emotions filling him, especially the ones Hermione's presence seemed to trigger.

George slowly disentangled himself from Hermione's grasp, grabbing another blanket to cover her and placing a kiss to her cheek before heading into the shower. The hot shower water beat down his back, washing away the aches of his muscles, the grime of the manor and the dried blood of his wounds. He had been so wrapped up in caring for Hermione's lesions he had forgotten all about the large gashes on his back from his capture. The water stung at the scabs but soon the sting turned into a relaxing sooth and he leaned his forehead against the cold slick tile in relaxation.

He stood under the spray for a long time, watching as his fingertips turned wrinkly from the moisture, allowing his mind to drift off into the strengthening connection between Hermione and himself. A connection that rivalled the one George shared with Fred. He found it strange how something so traumatic brought forth this new sense of completion to his life. Just being around Hermione, even in these circumstances, made him feel so content, as if her existence turned him into a whole; it was an elating feeling but at the same time absolutely baffling.

Never had he felt as if a part of him was missing, not with Fred in the picture. But now, it felt as if he had reasons beyond his twin for existing; for fighting for a better existence. Fred joined the Order almost instantly upon departing school. He said he was for Angela. To give her some sort of hope of peace. George hardly understood then how Angela merited this fight filled Fred, and being the responsible twin, George joined the Order too to protect his brother. But his heart was never in it. Not until Hermione was captured anyway.

Ever since the young witch was taken, George began to have terrible nightmares. Visions of the gruelling pain which she suffered. He hardly slept at night as they played constantly in his mind. Then he had been captured, and his mind snapped. Never had George felt so responsible for someone. It warmed George to know that Hermione was protected now. That she was safe and maybe happy. It was the only sensation he wanted her to ever experience and harm was the last. The very idea of someone laying a hand on her, not only made him lurch with anger, but it fuelled this jealousy he could not comprehend.

Each time the image of Ronald coming and whisking Hermione away into a snog-fest of reunited love entered his mind, George's stomach flipped violently, his fists clenched at his sides and the massive desire to pummel his brother into nothing filled him. Hermione did not belong to anyone, certainly not to George, but a sense of belonging came to him when he was with her. As if his place was to stand next to her, even if it was under the spray of this very shower.

Images of Hermione's naked form blocked out all coherent thought. Her body pressed in between the white tile wall and himself. Water cascading down her hair, making a trail across her collarbone and down the valley of her breasts before it spilled over her abdomen. Her hands raking gently through her wet locks and a smile gracing her lips as she whispered his name in ecstasy. George had to turn the water fully cold before finally shutting off the tap and stepping out into the steamy mist.

The cry which echoed through the now silent tent caused his heart to drop into his stomach and immediately George sprung into action.

"Hermione," he called out, walking down the hallway towards the bedroom, oblivious to the cool air that brushed past his damp flesh. Another whimpered shout came barrelling through the silence and he broke out into a run. His towel was long forgotten on the floor, his hair was still soaked with warm water that dripped down his back and his feet slipped slightly on the dark hardwood, but George hardly noticed. Instead he rushed down the hall and burst through the door with urgency.

Relief flooded his mind when he saw their temporary home was not housing any unwelcomed intruders. However, after finally finding a focal point, the relief dissipated. A shaking Hermione tossed and turned on the bed before him causing George to tense in concern. Her body was thrashing violently; sweat dripped off her brow and soft whines left her lips.

"I don't know," she whispered before she yelped and he knew that she was reliving everything. "I don't know where," She continued to whisper and he grasped her hand, rubbing his thumb against her palm, trying his best to comfort her through the terror of memory.

"Hermione love, please wake up," He pleaded, trying to find her an escape from her own mind. He expected these kinds of nightmares, but when they slept soundlessly together he thought Hermione would not be affected by them. Now he grasped how truly stupid he was for being so hopeful. She trembled in pain, her body bowing upwards under the blanket and he tried again with more force. "Love, wake up."

"Not George," she murmured and his eyes widened.

His name.  _His_ name. She just muttered his bloody name. He never expected that. Sure, he often hoped for his name to be muttered from one of her dreams, but definitely not in ache and alarm. "Don't hurt George." Her head lobbed back and forth, the tears running down her cheeks in a constant stream.

"Hermione," he said sternly and finally her eyes opened with a flutter of hesitation. She gasped for air, the breeze shocking her damp skin as her eyes searched for George's face.

"George," the gaze still fogged over her vision, clouding her eyes.

"I'm here love," his hand stroked through her hair gently and she turned into his touch, bringing herself closer to his chest, not caring for his lack of dress. He immediately climbed into the bed and held onto her shaking form. "It's over."

"Soon?" her voice was so soft, barely audible, as it repeated the question she had asked him in their old hole. The dread was fresh and present. The dread of the pain, of the dark, and of the room which once resided above their small hole of a dwelling. She had forgotten in the midst of her nightmare, but George would not let her go back. He would never let either of them go back there, not even emotionally.

"Not soon," He shook his head against her forehead and she whimpered slightly. "It's over now love. We aren't there anymore." His whispers reassured her, attempting to bring her back into the present. Their freedom.

They laid in a hushed silence both savouring the physical comfort of the embrace. He felt Hermione relax into him, her body fitting snugly into his in a position that was so natural, it felt like home. Her scent filled his lungs and her skin was soft underneath his rough palms; all he wanted to do was lean down and capture her lips in a heated kiss, sending her all the support he could not voice, but Hermione was much too vulnerable.

George did not want to take advantage of her fragile state with a physicality that she may not be ready for. A physicality that could potentially frighten her more. No matter how breathtaking he realized she truly was, no matter how connected they seemed now after their imprisonment or how hard he was falling for her, George would have to restrain himself. Hermione would have to initiate it; whatever  _it_  was.

Lucky for him, at that moment her eyes drew him out of his musings. Her amber pools dimmed into a dark smoky glow and were blanketed with an emotion George could not place. He imagined her reaction to be the same when she gazed up to met his blue orbs as they turned stormy grey from a rather vivid memory. But for some reason that lingering heat still burned like hot coals as the mist of memory descended between them.

"You were out for days Hermione," the sombre voice cracked through the silence, their eyes however, remained locked intensely. Hermione stiffen against him but George could not stop, the words were pouring out of his mouth without control. It was as if her eyes drew the sensations out of him; like drawing snake venom out of a bite. "Days. Y'know how terrified I was? I thought they killed you."

"I'm sorry." She whispered so quietly that George might have missed it. Might being the operative word.

"Don't be sorry love." His response was quick, almost immediate. "I just—I needed to tell you that." His fingertips brushed against her cheek and George felt it. The pull he attempted to resist, it strengthened; the magic that coursed through their bond seemed so intense that he wondered how the tingles blasting through his veins like a wild fire, burning him alive from the inside out, were silent. "I've never been that scared in my life before, but we're out now."

"I know," She said with a wistful smile, if she had heard the blaze within his body she gave no indication. The cracking of expanding wood drying out under the heat of her branding touch, the passion suffocating him as he breathed in the thick clouds of hot air and musky smoke; it was enough to make him go mad with want.

"And you know what that means don't you?" His smile matched hers; the calloused pad of his thumb traced circles on her jaw line and accidentally brushed against her soft lips. He hardly managed to suppress his groan as the tender flesh met his touch again an instant later. He was fighting a losing battle.

"Hmm, freedom?" Hermione pulled herself closer into George's arms. Her sweet breath brushing against his neck and he felt his reserve struggling. He pressed his forehead against hers, the need to breathe her in starting to overpower his sense of logic.

"Not quite yet love," The timbre of his voice was husky and low as he spoke. It took all of him to hold his body back from acting out, from following the path her presence pulled him down. "We've still got to make our way out of this bush, which is why you are going to take a bath before the sun rises."

"I like the sound of that," this time George could not contain the gentle groan as he heard Hermione's words purr pass her lips. The soft patterns her nails traced into his chest were disorienting and George was sure that she was flirting with him. But he would not base his affections on flirtation right now. Not when he made a vow to himself. No, he had to wait for action, even if it killed him. "But I can't really stand that well."

"That's fine," he pulled back, looking behind him to the hallway. If he let himself get immersed within her any longer all his strength would be lost. He completely missed the way Hermione's smile faltered slightly or how her breath hitched in anticipation but the haze of her fervour was clouding his senses. "I'll draw you a bath and then we will start moving."

"Ok," Although her voice agreed, it lacked the same contentment it had earlier, which may be why neither of them moved from their position. George needed to linger within the comfort of her and Hermione, he assumed, was too weak to go just yet. His hand slowly dropped to Hermione's lower back, mimicking the motions of her fingertips as they continued to run up and down the plains of his chest, and time inched by before Hermione dared to break the moment.

"Hey George," Hermione spoke timidly, pulling herself away from his grip slightly. "I was scared too. Th-they threatened you," the sudden sob that shook through her vibrated against George's chest and he tightened his hold on her waist. The shudders of her body grew more powerful as her words stuttered out rapidly. "I was alone. I thought-I thought you were gone. I can't lose you George."

"Shh love, you haven't lost me," her tears dripped down her face, landing on George's skin, and although the fire of her touch cooled greatly in her confessions, it still felt like a sizzling heat burning the flesh above his heart. "I'm right here."

"It's going to be all different," The ambiguity would have confused anyone, even her two closest friends, but George understood. Just like he would when they got back. That was the whole point. The family would not understand a thing. The looks of sympathy and all the support they would push onto both Hermione and George would just make it all worse. It would prevent them from forgetting anything. It would just bring the reality of the past to a constant forefront.

George almost wished he could live in this tent for the rest of his life just to avoid it all. He was sure Hermione felt the same way, but that was wishful thinking. Running away would not aid anything either. This was something they needed to face head on and work through. It was something that needed the full force of both of their legendary Gryffindor courage. It was something they needed to do together.

"I won't leave you."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

* * *

Steam slowly lifted from the surface of the soapy water, blending with the bright autumn sunlight which trickled through the skylight overlooking the large tub. The dripping of the tap echoed across the black and white tile floor, keeping time to the tune of birds chirping outside. The cool marble rested against Hermione's back, taking the edge off the hot bath water, and she hummed in content. The early morning sun just started to creep into the tent and, although she was reluctant at first, the bath was the perfect way to start off this new chapter; her freedom.

The water felt great against her skin. It was warm and clean; the lingering traces of vanilla oil smoothing her flesh into the soft texture it once was. It was the feeling she missed the most: cleanliness. She once heard a muggle song describing the superiority of cleanliness, equalling it to godliness, but until that moment she had not understood the full meaning.

Being treated like nothing and being covered in dirt for so many weeks, months actually, only to be rewarded with fresh air and a gigantic white marble tub made Hermione's mind numb. If she could spend the rest of her days in the warm bath, Hermione was sure she would slowly be rebuilt from the shattered pieces of her broken self. Even the cuts, bruises and injuries seemed to be healing rapidly under the water and Hermione could only assume George mixed the bath with some sort of potion.

 _George,_  her mind hummed as she dunked her head, feeling the soap bubbles drip off her face and hair as she remerged. Just the thought of him caused her flesh to tingle with happiness and her muscles to instantly relax. The way he smiled at her, the way he cared for her, the way he was interested in her thoughts and opinions; it was more than she ever deserved. Feeling this happy was just something so foreign, so new, she had no idea whether it was even real.

The blissful happiness that was the past two days, living happily in this tent, was such a contrast to her past few surviving months. She almost thought she was going bipolar; but yet here she was. In a tub, surrounded by heavenly magical water, living in a tent with a man who she never would have expected to make her this content.

It was the moments of joy, the ones where she relished in the emotions George was able to bring out that sent her into a spiral of confusion. Every time she thought of George, and how incredible he made her feel, Hermione instantly felt a pang of guilt. The thought of Ron and how, what seemed like, the entire world was rooting for them to be together caused Hermione to shrink back in a type of terror.

Sure she loved Ron, but Hermione always felt this lingering insecurity with him. She never felt safe in his arms, not fully. He was always so willing to let her get hurt, or be the one to cause pain. She had discovered during her capture, and possibly before that, how she really felt. Ronald Weasley was nothing more than her best friend. And she was starting to fall for his brother.

For Merlin sake, George Weasley was the prankster older brother of Ron, her best friend. Someone who was not interested in her. George was brilliant, something she always knew about the twins. And sure he was incredibly handsome. And caring. And she always kind of fancied him, but what chance did she have with him. Especially after everything now, she was damaged. Her skin was marked with scars to prove that. Even with his own scars and injuries, he was still on such a higher level than her.

And yet, his gentle touches, the way his lips always lingered against her skin when he kissed her chastely on the forehead or cheek, the way he spoke to her. It was as if his emotions were conveying some hidden attraction, but that just could not be. No. They experienced something together, something tragic and traumatic, and sure only they would be able to understand the events that transpired, but that in no way meant he was attracted to her right?

With a soft sigh Hermione, let her inner musings rest for a moment, as she took in the sight of her skin. It was still adored with purple and black marks, but they were shrinking greatly in size. Since George placed her in the bath, the swelling had reduced by half the size. The injuries surrounding her ankle was so small now that, as she massaged the tender flesh with her wrinkly fingers, she could probably walk on it. Maybe not for the full day of hiking through the thick forest, but enough so George would not have to carry her through all of it.

The sun was shining through the skylight, blanketing the tile floor of the bathroom, and heating the foggy room in a way that signalled Hermione it was time. Time to start moving and making their way home. It was time to go home. Gripping the side of the tub, Hermione attempted to stand, and reach for the towel, but her weight was too much for her ankle. She hissed in pain at the soft amount of pressure and quickly sat back down in the tub. George had managed to get her into the tub; it would only make sense that he would have to pull her out now.

She reluctantly looked over at the towel, then the door, and then her ankle. She would definitely be able to walk on it with a bandage keeping some of the pressure off, but getting out onto the slippery tile floor would prove to be too much. Pulling some bubbles over her bosom and glancing back to the door, she admitted defeat.

"George," she called out, marvelling at how her voice was not as hoarse as before, so she called again just to hear the change. "George, I need your help please."

"Hermione," he responded almost instantly, tapping on the door of the washroom. "Are you decent?" he asked as he walked through the door into the mist, covering his hand to his eyes. She saw his fiery red hair first, a classic Weasley trait, but her eyes wandered, taking in all which was uniquely defined to him, George Weasley.

The stubble of his beard accented his square chin and his rugged manliness. The fluid movements of his legs however, showed his grace. The muscles of his beater build were visible through the thin t-shirt, which clung to his form with the moisture. The angular features of his face wrapped in the palms of his hands may have been hidden but still eluded to his handsomeness. It was enough to cause this overwhelming desire to mix with the clean water surrounding her.

"Kind of," She smirked, attempting to channel the type of flirtation which she had seen Lavender Brown use. In truth, the bubbles were covering most of her, and since George had seen her nude not more than an hour ago she figured it was a very truthful answer. So why was George's eyes comically wide as he gazed at her. "I need your help getting back out."

"I-I" he coughed, trying to cover up his cracking voice as he attempted to regain composure. Hermione bit her lip nervously, trying to decipher George's lack of eloquence, something that never lacked before. The concept of George Weasley, suave ladies man, struggling in front of a naked woman only caused Hermione's emotions to mentally slap her.

He was only suave to get what he wanted, and obviously that was not her. Swallowing hard and clearing his throat, he finally mustered a response. "I'm sure I left a towel somewhere in here," he winked and lifted the towel Hermione attempted to reach for before.

"Thanks," she replied, a blush creeping to her cheeks, and George just nodded. The less speaking, the less she could make a fool of herself in front of him. Gripping George's forearms, Hermione steadied herself onto one of her feet and George wrapped the towel around her. The fluffy white cloth, drying her wet skin, and rubbing the remains of the potion water further into her injuries. She sighed inwardly as he lifted her over the edge of the tub and carried her back to the bedroom placing her delicately on the bed.

"So um, Malfoy managed to get some clothes we could wear," He said rubbing the back of his neck in what almost seemed like embarrassment. "There are some sweats and underwear which I laid out next to you actually," he gestured to the neat pile of folded black and green clothes which sat comfortably on the bed, and Hermione smiled. "I'll let you get dressed."

"Actually," She paused rubbing the sensitive flesh of her ankle soothingly, "could you wrap my ankle up in a bandage, I think it is safer for me to change when I am able to stand on it." Her giggle caused him to smile, before nodding and grabbing the compression bandage from the medical supplies provided.

Kneeling down in front of her, George gently gripped her calf, raising her ankle to rest on his thigh. His fingers brushed up against her soft skin, the touch of his rough pads sending a shiver to shoot up her leg and coil in the pit of her stomach. It was electric; almost like static making her skin prickle with goose bumps, but at the same time there was something so smooth about it. It washed over her like crashing waves pulling her into the current of his passion. It was definitely not the reaction Hermione was expecting from this type of innocent care.

Still she found herself immersed with in his stare. His eyes darkening as they gazed into hers, never breaking the contact, only drawing her in further. No he was just gauging her reaction, ensuring she was in no pain as his fingers wrapped the fabric tightly around her injury.

"Not too tight?" he asked, pausing his actions midway. His voice was low, hushed and sweet, but the tide had not fallen yet. It had only risen to Hermione, who blushed under his gaze. She shook her head no, words failing her as he watched her. Taking a soft gulp Hermione broke the connection by closing her eyes in an attempt to remain unfazed by his expression, but even with her eyes shut she felt it. His eyes on her, drowning her in the pools of passion.

What was wrong with her? She never felt this strength of want before. Not with any of her past entanglements. Especially not with Ron. Instead a different Weasley's face danced behind her closed lids, keeping that very connection which she so desperately tried to avoid alive. The hidden unknown emotion which lingered in the depths of his orbs unhinged her, sending her spiralling into another wave of silent pleasure.

" _Why don't we get the Weasel up here, maybe that would loosen your tongue,"_ the sinister voice of Bellatrix Lestrange sung, and Hermione's eyes snapped open. No, she could not just invade her thoughts whenever she felt like it. She was not under  _her_  hold anymore. Glancing down she noticed George still watching her, as he secured the bandage. He had not noticed the tricks of her mind.

"George," Hermione began, her voice cracking slightly. He was done wrapping her ankle, and yet his hold remained on her. Whether in concern or desire, Hermione hardly cared. She loved his feel. The haunting words still plagued her, but his essence was clouding her in happiness and Hermione needed that.

It was then she released what this all was. Yes of course. Hermione was so attached to George she was blinding herself. Yes that had to be it. "Th-Thank you." She managed to say, opting to leave her flashback out, though a large portion of her rebelled against both that decision and her conclusion.

"N-No problem" he stuttered after Hermione pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, "I'll be waiting outside in the kitchen. We should eat before we leave okay?" She watched him walk out before grabbing the sweat shirt. She was in the middle of pulling the soft material over her head when it hit her.

George Weasley was blushing. She had kissed him and he was blushing.  _I can't just be imagining this,_ she thought, confusion taking a forefront once again. She was unsure what George may have been feeling, and she was unsure what her attraction fully meant. All she knew for certain was when her lips met his cheek, the whirlpool she was stuck in finally dragged her down and the hideous voice which had invaded her was forgotten.

She was drowning in George Weasley and there was no escape now. But the strange thing was Hermione Granger was okay with it.


	11. House Arrest

  
**Love and War Chapter 10**   
****House Arrest** **   


* * *

 

Pacing; the act of walking back and forth within a restricted area or route, usually done within a state of nervous anxiety or deep thought. It was a foreign occurrence to the, usual carefree, demeanor of either one of Weasley twins'. The cool and collected pair would never be caught in such a panicked state, especially one that led to such a prolonged period of worried marching. And yet, pacing, an idea so alien, was now a constant for Fredrick Gideon Weasley, one half of the famous troublemaking duo.

A long adventurous trek lay out before the feet of Fred's brother, along with those of the other captive, and, although the twins' were separated by a great distance, George Weasley's worry was mirrored in Fred. Thus the pacing. The nonstop movement took Fred's focus off his brother and his current state of semi freedom. Pacing kept Fred alert, ready and willing to assist the next Order member which walked through the heavy dark oak doors of the safe house. It was the only action that kept his mind focused on something other than the magnitude of questions spilling up and over the top of his mind. It numbed the cold moments of agonizing silence; the ones that seemed to draw out longer within the sector Molly Weasley insisted Fred manage: the infirmary ward.

As it turns out, despite the momentously happy news of George's escape, Fred was still under the watchful eye of the Order, and his mother.  _A more relaxed form of house arrest if you will._  The Order heads said they needed him stationed at the healer's ward because of the 'extensive knowledge in wizard medicine' Fred supposedly possessed, but everyone knew that was a load of rubbish. The real reason, though unspoken, was as clear as liquid luck: Molly Weasley feared Fred's capture in attempting to assist George on his hike through the forest outside Malfoy Manor.

He would be lying if he said the option had not cross his mind, but the instant it did, Fred reprimanded himself for it. The chances of helping George were slim, and there was an even greater chance that Fred's sudden apparation onto the Malfoy grounds would get both, George and the other refugee, captured along with Fred. But that logical hesitation only proved his point further. Thoughts, especially ones that had not led to action, are no reason to station Fredrick Weasley,  _mediocre_  wizarding healer, to the infirmary where he would have to deal with multiple patients, daily. The very concept, much like pacing, was illogical.

The past few days however were exactly what Fred needed. Though he would never admit it aloud, he was actually quite glad to be stationed to this ward. After all, chaos is the ideal environment for a prospering Weasley twin, and the infirmary was nothing but chaotic. The turnover was high, the emotions were frantic and the movements needed were definitely not Crabbe and Goyle slow.

The place had become a revolving door as Wizards and witches of the Order rushed in and out, but the mass amount of patients did not deter Fred in the least. His skills with wizard medicine were lacking at first but in just a day he managed to overcome that technicality. A magnitude of spells and potions were added to his healing arsenal, a lot of which could assist in fixing work-in-progress prank accidents, and for that he was actually thankful.

The knowledge he acquired was very useful, but he was no Hermione. Knowledge, however valuable, was not what mattered most to Fred. The hectic 'keep-on-your-toes' environment took all of Fred's attention, distracting him from everything except the task at hand. He was allowed push his grief to the recesses of his mind as he brewed a potion or healed a laceration. Changing bandages, performing spells, and administering medications properly were tasks that had to be done precisely, tasks that required no waver in action. So, Fred's mind was constantly trained on something other than the wellbeing of the Order members who were missing in action. On Something other than the wounds he feared George would arrive with.

Then why was Fred pacing? Well, in between the pandemonium of the infirmary ward, during those few draughts of silence, was when it all hit him. The tragic results of the war so far. The potential loss of his twin brother; his other half. The daily deaths of wizards and witches whom he had grown close to. The curses which remained scarred on the flesh of his fellow fighters and the families which were demolished within the destruction. These memories were all burned into his brain, and though the silence was relaxing to most, it was torture for Fred.

The curse of the infirmary is what he had named it. The moments in which the guilt ate at him for not fighting, or for even thinking a moment without another injury was a curse. He was relieved not to see another Order member caught on the wrong side of a Death Eater's wand, but Fred could not shake the sounds of a war drum beating within his ears. He heard the seconds ticking by rhythmically; the low heavy beat of the second hand, the rapid breaths of the recovering patients, and the pitter patter of hurried footsteps on the floors below. It was a countdown to whether he would see if the other half of him survived through the torment of the Malfoy family.

It was to the beat of the countdown that Fred paced. Ticking off the supplies he had left and muttering out the names of useful healing potions to brew. The black chalkboard listed all the ingredients he had left in one column, and all the ones he needed in the other. He studied it, along with the medical books on the bookshelves lining the infirmary walls. He did anything, and everything to avoid the looming question: will George make it?

"Fred?" The unmistakable voice of Ginny Weasley echoed through the surprisingly empty room. Fred froze at the sound of her voice, his foot hovering mid pace. "Fred." She tried again which only shook him into action. Frantically he began prepping supplies for a potion he had plenty of, not bothering to meet his younger sister's eyes as his hands raced over the desk. "Fred, stop." She said louder, her voice booming with power, but Fred's movements just grew more rapid.

He squeezed the juice of a mistletoe berry and added a pinch of unicorn horn to the cauldron. As the steam started to rise from the bubbling liquid, the familiar sting of sadness clung behind his eyes. Pushing it aside he forced more of his attention on the poison cure, but questions still poured into his mind. How far away is George? Who is the other captive? Are his injuries extensive? Does he have enough supplies to carry both himself and the other captive through the treacherous trek?

Supplies. Merlin, what if George does not have the correct potions to cure a poisoning. Fred's eyes widen at the thought and immediately he took a bottle of already finished cure, grabbing some parchment and a small box. As he frantically searched for a quill, he felt the hand gripping his forearm. Glancing back he froze, finally taking notice of Ginny and the concern wide in her eyes. His shoulders shuddered instantly as silent tears broke free and dripped down his cheeks, but he hurriedly wiped them away.

"Sorry Gin," his voice regained as he sucked in a deep breath. "This whole healing business must be getting to me."

"Don't you know you can't lie to me?" she asked with a smirk before depositing the clean sheets she had tucked under her other arm on the empty cot. "I could sense your worry from down in the kitchen."

"That bad huh?" A chuckle escaped him as he slumped into the arm chair, absently thinking of the day him and his twin discovered Ginny's ability to sense emotions. The image of a six year old Ginny appeared in his mind, telling them she could feel everything. They thought she was joking at first but after reading some old books they found in the attic and doing some experiments with Ginny and an unsuspecting Ron, Ginny was revealed to be an empath. Something that could be very valuable to the dark lord, something that was to be remained hidden between the three siblings.

"He won't stop being connected to you Fred." Her words are precise, and exact. The same fear that he refused to admit to himself finally spoken aloud. This experience George went through, it must have changed him. When he comes back, if he comes back, George will certainly be a different person. The affects of his torture and his capture will not just leave him unscathed. And Fred feared how different they would be now; a missing ear is one thing, but being captured for so long is something else entirely.

"I guess I can't get anything past you," His hand absently stirred the cauldron avoiding the heavy weighted topic.

"Fred," Her tone, all soft and sympathetic, unleashed a white hot anger which Fred had no idea he possessed. Sure Ginny could feel what he felt, but that does not mean she understood it.

"No Gin," Fred bellowed as he slammed his fist down on the table. The brewing potion rippling from the cascading force. "He's changed. I can feel that from being this far away from him. He's gone through something absolutely horrible, how on earth am I on the same level as him now?"

"Because Fred," she continued, her voice never wavering in sympathy, but this time Fred felt the anger begin to melt away. "Acknowledging that, knowing you don't understand what he went through," Ginny paused as she let out a sigh, "it shows you too are experiencing something he doesn't understand. Being unsure about how to feel, just like him. That, and the fact that you're already so connected, will just strengthen your bond with him." A skeptically raised eyebrow was her response, and with another sigh she stood from her chair. "Just trust me ok Fred? I know what I am talking about."

Fred's words were caught in his throat. He wanted to tell his sister he did trust her, and that she was probably right like she always was, but the large oak doors burst open at that moment. His mouth was hanging open, but promptly shut it as Sirius Black limped through the ward and deposited himself on one of the beds.

"Am I going to get any service," he said with a pained chuckle, lifting his injured leg onto the undressed cot.

"Yeah yeah," Fred smiled at Ginny as she walked out of the infirmary, leaving him to care for the sarcastic marauder. He poured the finished poison cure into a vile, before walking over to his patient. "I'm coming, hold onto your hair will yah."

"Oh Doc," Sirius feigned a distressed sigh. "Am I gonna' make it? Or will they have to chop my leg off."

"I'll chop it off anyway if you don't stop moving." Fred laughed lightly, whispering the healing spell needed to clean, mend and dress the wound. "Drink this."

In one gulp the potion was down Sirius's throat. A satisfied 'ah' lingered in the air, and Fred laughed louder this time. Sure, the war was horrible, and his twin was missing, but laughter was always a welcomed action for a Weasley twin. And Fred would never stop laughing.


	12. Journeys Part 1

  
**Love and War Chapter 11**   
**Journeys Part 1**   


* * *

 

The late August heat, thick with moisture, descended upon the forest surrounding Malfoy Manor. The wilderness, usually buzzing with life, had become lethargic in the swelter. The animals' steps had slowed, the leaves remained immobile from the lacking breeze; even the soft song the birds sang was sluggish. And still, at a speedy pace, Hermione Granger trekked through the unusually humid forest and George Weasley could not have been more worried.

Since the instant the protection wards were broken, Hermione had been pushing her body hard. A look of determination glued on her face, she pulled herself over huge fallen logs, waded through the flooded rivers and stumbled on the many scattered rocks. Her injuries, ever in the forefront of George's mind, had hardly healed and as time passed her movements became increasingly shakier. He watched as she struggled to get over a rather large fallen elder tree, refusing his assistance, and George felt the defeat slump with his shoulders.

Helplessness blanketed him snugly as his gaze landed on the bare skin exposed from her back sports bra. The gashes on Hermione's back had ripped open slightly; the scabbed flesh stretching and contracting constantly. Her wrapped ankle most likely throbbed under the weight of her steps as she hurled herself through the rough terrain. The bandage on her side, covering the words itched into her skin, was soaked through with fresh blood; an unfamiliar dark magic was used on that wound, of that George was sure. He toyed with the idea of forcing them to a stop, rest being beneficial, but arguing with Hermione, no matter how he worried, was anything but.

Above them the canopy of branches slowly loosened. The beams of light, which fell through the leaves, grew larger; peepholes had become skylights, accenting large sections of the earth. Beads of moisture clung to the air; it magnified the glow and reflected the day off the droplets. The trees were separating from one another, as if they were suddenly given more room to stretch their limbs; their roots secured within the earth instead of buckling upwards. It was all leading to one thing, and George Weasley marveled at its beauty.

The sun was blinding as Hermione and he came to the edge of a clearing. The meadow absorbed and reflected the midday sun; it was so bright it nearly countered Harry Potter's patronous. Wild flowers of yellow and purple prospered through the open field, seemingly dancing atop the long blades of green. It was all so inviting, as if magic was swirling around the field. He was tempted to just lie in the bed of grass and moss, however watching Hermione as she basked in the wonder, George knew better.

This forest, however beautiful, was a danger; the meadow being no different. Even in the daylight, darkness still surrounded them. It loomed behind the trunk of each tree, beneath the water of every river, and concealed itself within the life of each animal. The entirety of this tantalizing forest, overgrown with untamed wild magic, was shrouded in the evil of the war. George felt it soak into his bones the instant he stepped outside the tent flap in the early morning; the feeling lurking over him all day. It caused his hair to stand on end and kept his senses sharp. Yesterday's daring escape went unnoticed, but now, Hermione and he were the deer, and the death eaters were the wolves.

Hermione almost stepped out into the open when George grabbed her hand, pulling her into the thicker part of the tree line.

"We have to stay hidden until we can apparate," he whispered, urgency present in his voice, as he bent down to examine her ankle. "You've been on that all morning, how's it feeling?"

"Just fine," Hermione whispered back, but her cinnamon orbs hinted towards her pain. "The bandage is keeping the weight off." Taking a shaky a seat on a fallen log, she finally allowed herself a brief rest and George could not have been more relieved.

His fingers gently removed the bandage, massaging the tender skin and inspecting the area for any further damage. The potions had taken the swelling down in the morning, but after a day's long trek it had returned, darkening the bruises which lay over the joint.  _Yesterday the bone had been jutting out the skin_ , he thought, trying to reassure himself that a little swelling could have been worse but it did not quell the anger in his stomach.

George struggled to keep his emotions in check, his rage urging him to turn around, head back to the manor, and kill every death eater that lay a hand on his Hermione.

 _His Hermione._  Merlin, he was in deep now. That was not the first time George placed a claim on her, but he could not help wanting to keep her with him, to keep her safe, especially after all that happened within their shared confines. His hands stilled after securing the bandage, itching to investigate the other wound. The one he knew would be the hardest to heal, but they did not have that much time.

With a silent sigh, George stood, studying the woods before him. Across the field laid more of the forest, though the foliage was not as thick. He could tell they were nearing the edge of the detection ring. The mountains were visible through the thinning hoard of cedar and hawthorn, and his body burned with the anticipation of home. It seemed as though this was the most direct path to safety but, the visibility would leave them vulnerable.

If his senses were right, death eaters were scouring the grounds by now, hunting for the two missing captives. And Merlin help them if they were found. Being out in the open, he knew would be faster, but definitely not wiser. Glancing to the right, he took in their second option.

The dense forest along the edge of the clearing would definitely be their safest route, but he could barely make out the light down that path. Long vines, large rocks, larger trees and tall grass would act as excellent cover, but maneuvering through it would prove difficult for himself, not to mention Hermione. It would take them another day to get out of this place.

"George," Hermione's breathless whimper brought him back, and immediately he turned to her, his gaze sweeping over her form.

The tight black and green sweat pants clung to her legs, extenuating every curve. She removed the green t-shirt she wore earlier, the heat becoming too much to handle, leaving her in her black sports bra. His eyes darkened with desire, taking in the expanse of skin exposed to him. The tight fabric made the rise and fall of her chest more noticeable; the long plait of her curly hair falling over her shoulder and nestled in the valley breasts.

It took all the self restraint he possessed not to kiss her senseless, but her voice drew him out of his wicked thoughts. "We are sitting ducks here."

"I know." His admission was not meant to be reassuring; they both knew that this close to the tree line they were visible. "I'm just gathering my bearings."

"Set up a ward if you need to rest," her voice softened, tapering at the end, hinting to her own desires; rest. With a curt nod he began the enchantments. A break would be a good way to slow Hermione's pace, but he was sure it would not last for long.

Her words were laced with an urgency of her own. She was on a mission, just like George, but while he longed for safety, she longed for home. This made Hermione more reckless in her decisions. Her normally logical sense of judgement was clouded by eagerness and memory.

Twice now Hermione got lost in her mind, letting past trauma take over. A faraway look filled her eyes, the amber ring around her chocolate pools swirled into a fiery blackness, as if the terror was closing in. George literally had to shake her back to reality each time. How much longer she would remain present with him? George was not sure. He just prayed she would never return from the reality she created. But the inevitability of it was certain. George just hoped the next time he could pull Hermione back at all.

* * *

* * *

 


	13. Journeys Part 2

 

**Love and War Chapter 12**   
**Journeys Part 2**

* * *

It radiated. With every step, every climb, Hermione felt the burning. The growing ache of her muscles, the lingering fire of dark magic scorching through her veins, the shrieking screams of her injuries; her mind struggled to fight past it and trek on. But she could not let the pain stop her, not now. Not with so much on the line.

George was worried. She was sure of that. His gaze lingered on her, concern present each time their eyes connected, silently begging her to take it easy. But she would not slow down. Not when they were still so far from freedom.

 _His freedom_ , she thought as she glanced across the field again, studying the path before them. The clearing, full of radiant beauty, was a gift bestowed to them by Merlin himself. It was a gift of danger, but it was perfect none the less. If they ran it, they could clear it in three minutes. They would only be visible for three minutes. Three minutes, and George would be safe.

" _You think keeping quiet will save you?"_  Shutting her eyes, Hermione cursed the memories clouding her mind. That voice, that vicious hiss of tenderness _,_  barreled through, reminding her of the horror that awaited them if they were caught. She could feel the hard floor beneath against her back, the long dark curls brushing against her face, the tip of a wand pressed against her neck.

With a shake of her head it was gone. The memory, which became so real each time, cleared from the blank canvas of her closed lips. It was so disorienting for Hermione. One moment she was in the lavish house, adorn with the dark riches of old pureblood wealth, and the next, she was free in the English wilderness. As Hermione glanced up, a twinkling lining the edge of her vision, feeling like this was just a pleasant hallucination midst the torture.

The green that surrounded her encased her in a cocoon of nature. It was all so freeing, so dream like. A happiness like no other felt before contrasted her fear, making her forget the past even existed. The soft mossy floor. The hard log she sat on. The streaming sunlight. And George.

Almost sighing aloud Hermione's focus finally landed on George. She watched the fluid movements of his casting. The shirt he had on early in the day was now tucked in the pack, exposing his similarly marred skin to the breezeless summer air. She took note of the gashes, but drove her attention to the muscles of his back. How they tensed and relaxed as he set up the protection wards. How his shoulders moved with the circulating of his wand. It was the most captivating sight, stirring the pit of her stomach with a melted desire.

 _Three minutes_ , she thought, but as she attempted to stand, her ankle protested. A sharp pain shot up her leg, sending her back down to reality and her seat. The only reason George seemed so reluctant to cross the field was because of her. Hermione felt completely beyond repair, and no matter how much she wanted George, he would not see past that. Especially if she kept hindering his safe return home. She was broken, and because of that, she was hindering their chances.  _His_  chances.

It was then that they heard it. The snap of the twigs. The rustle of the leaves. The deep grumbles of human life. Hermione's body froze, only her eyes snapping in the direction of the sound, but George, with his beater reflexes still sharp, was quicker. He lifted Hermione almost instantly, and moved to hide them both in a patch of thicker wilderness; the disillusion charm now securely in place.

They were both unsure of what was to happen, whether this would mean their doom. Hermione could feel the tremors of her body, panic rattling her senses. A fear for herself. A fear for George.  _This is it,_  she thought, as the thudding steps neared. With eyes shut tight, the conversation becoming more distinct, evil inched its way closer and closer.

"Elmar," the crunch of forest beneath heavy boots came to a halt, and Hermione bit her lip to keep from whimpering. "I doubt 'ey went this far."

"Even if that were the case," a swine sounding death eater spoke slowly, "we're the furthest out. LeStrange will do us in if we let 'em run. Young Malfoy got it easy compared to us."

A sickening feeling rose up her throat as her memories morphed. Hermione could picture it. Draco lying on the dark floor of the manor, blood spilling from his many cuts, his aunt hovering over him, wand aimed for another curse. An urge to turn back and aid their classmate and rescuer filled her mind, but was cut short.

 _You're gonna scream for me girly,_  it whispered, the husk of an animal lingering in the cold malice of the voice. Plunged back into the dark sitting room, she felt Fenrir's breath against her face, Draco's body lying limp next to her own. She swayed, feeling the tips of what felt like the sharpest knives digging into her side, carving a vile hate into her flesh. Suddenly everything got very dizzy. She could hardly stay conscious, the pain becoming too much, as the world was falling beneath her. The bile climbing up her throat become nearly impossible to keep down, but it all instantly vanished when George's hand landed on her forearm.

A sudden flutter of her lids, and Hermione found her gaze locked with George's. It was as if she was drawn to his unspoken request. The dark ocean whirled in his orbs begging her to drown, pulling her out of the confines of her mind and into his. A finger placed snugly against his smirking lips, punctuating the need for quiet, drew the horror out. She was sent back to her days in Hogwarts', hiding from Filch in an alcove as she returned from an after hour potions run. She almost smiled with him.

"I still don' think 'ey came out this far, and if 'ey did, 'ey got away." The two death eaters seemed to float around them as George's stare fixated on Hermione's, an intense emotional current floating between them. A subtle shake of his head and she knew what he was thinking.

They had to forget Draco was a spy. Maybe even forget about him entirely. He was after all just that, a spy. To put him in a harm's way, more so than he was, would be a death sentence. If his cover was blown, everything he worked for would have been for nothing. "How 'bout we 'ead back to that lake 'ere and wait?"

"Wait for what?" The cloaked figure, whose steps stopped right before their shrubbery, hissed. Hermione let out an audible swallow and she felt George's fingertips rub soothing circles on her skin, distracting her from the danger which loomed right over their heads.

"'Em to reach there," the disturbingly cheerful reply seemed bright and full life, a large contrast to the vile undertone of her words. "'Ey need water right? Why not wait at the one stop needed?"

"'Uppose you're right," said the obviously dimmer death eater, and just as quickly as they arrived, the two enemies left. Their steps thudded against the earth, vibrating through the dirt back in the direction they had come from. It was clear the protection wards were in full affect.

Still, George and Hermione remained hidden in the shrubs, waiting in silence. George's hand, moved up to cup Hermione's cheek, and instinctively her face nuzzled into his touch. The pad of his thumb stroked against her skin before she felt his lips press against her forehead. The comfort which she depended on left her breathless, even from such a simple action.

Moving closer to him, his arms pulled her into his chest and she relished in the embrace. Hermione sighed softly as his warmth rushed through her body. With her head tucked under his chin and his hand rubbing up and down the length of her back, she finally relaxed. Even as they hid in the bushes, the safety she felt in George's arms was like no other, but Hermione knew they had to get moving.

"George," she whispered, pulling herself back just enough to meet his gaze. "We have to make it across that field." He looked like he was about to object, but gave in with a nod.

"We would have to run," glancing down at her ankle, she knew what he was silently asking her, and she only nodded in response. Standing out of the bush timidly, Hermione slowly walked to the edge of the clearing.

Studying their path, she felt herself fill with nerves. The bright sun would prove the disillusion charm useless, breaking through the mirror like reflections the spell worked on. Taking a shaky breath and releasing it slowly, she prepared herself, knowing the pain in her ankle would near crippling as she ran.

"Whenever you're ready love," George's arms snaked around her waist, pulling her back against him, and his face buried against her shoulder as whispered his encouragement. But Hermione knew what he longed to say. He hardly thought this was a good idea, but it was the only way, and they had to go. Now.

Feeling bold, she turned around in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck. Their eyes met briefly, allowing them to communicate without words.  _I'll be fine,_  her cinnamon sprinkled onto the ocean, appeasing his concern. Gently, she raised herself on her toes, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek to convey an unsure emotion. One that required more time for examination, time they could not afford.

Abruptly breaking out of his embrace, Hermione bolted across the field running from what she longed for. George's fast steps chased her own not even a moment after, making the noise of her foot falls echo.

 _So you never forget what you are, Mudblood,_ The voice she refused to hear pummeled through her thoughts, attempting to hold her hostage in the cell she escaped. But Hermione pushed onward, reminding her of George's promise to never leave her side and she smiled despite the sting of the run. He would always follow her, she knew that now.

The air rushed past her ears as she moved across the meadow. The warm air finally building movement, even if it was propelled by her own. The thick heat filled her lungs, her breaths laboured in the run, as sweat dripped down her skin.

And the pain. Oh the pain. Her ankle was scorching. Each step that landed on the soft earth caused the joint shatter violently. Even though the throb mixed with the gentle burn of her side, slick with blood, her pace refused to waver. They had cleared the meadow and still Hermione kept running through the patch of trees, feeling George's worried gaze fixated on her form as he hurried after her.

 _I will never forget your smell kitten,_  the animal returned, attempting to trap her once more. The dark closed in, but Hermione pushed through passing the trees with the speed of a stag. She leaped over a fallen log, the shock of her landing causing shooting cracks upward, but Hermione did not stumble.

Suddenly, she felt George's hand on her shoulder, drawing her to a halt and it was then she noticed it. The breeze first, but then the sun. It was brighter as it beat down on them. The air seemed to clear from the humidity and the mountains were larger than she ever saw them before. They had passed the ring, behind them the forest disappeared entirely under the magic placed on the Malfoy grounds.

 _It's safe,_  she smiled before pulling out her wand, but George stilled her hand.

"Let me," He said, a soft chuckle lacing his tone before he added. "splinching isn't something I quite enjoy." His arm rested on her waist, supporting her weight, a wide smirk firmly on her lips, and then she felt it. The pull and twist, starting in her stomach, and they had not even apparated yet. Reaching up, her finger tips glided across his brow, gingerly brushing away the sweat. His eyes closed, seemingly relishing in the feel of her touch, and his lips curved upward in a sly grin. Her belly flipped with joy and she realized what it all meant.

She was not delusional. She was not dependent on the comfort of their shared experience. Sure, it was part of it, but there was more. A surprisingly empowering emotion. Hermione Granger fancied George Weasley.

"Let's go," she whispered, lifting herself onto the toes of her steady foot and pressing her lips to his cheek. His grin widen in response and with a crack they were gone. The twisting and pulling which she felt now was different and not as pleasant. Apparition, she knew, was guiding them to safety, but the assault of dizziness mixing with her own sublime nirvana was the final straw.

As she landed next to George, outside the familiar building, her body gave in. Her vision tunneled while the weight on her feet became too much to support. Darkness finally consumed her sight, and the falling feeling guided her down the tunnel.

"Hermione love," she barely registered the feel of George'e strong arms holding her up, but did hear his soft whispers. He sounded so isolated, as if she was stuck in the nightmare, and he was the freed to live in the dream of liberty. His pleas for help seemed to be created in her mind as the distance between them grew. The disorientation finally took over in a blackening confusion.  _He's safe now,_  was her last thought before it all went black.


	14. A Home Coming

**Love and War Chapter 13  
A Home Coming**

* * *

An eternity seemed to pass. The minutes inched by at a rate comparable to years. Waiting helplessly for his allies to arrive, George Weasley cradled the woman he cherished, baffled by the rate of her heart. It slowed, further and further, the feeble beating nearing a halt and George knew time was running out. Hermione Granger was dying in his arms and he was incapable of stopping it.

 _What's taking so long,_ he thought before calling out towards the small stronghold. The sounds which surrounded him, the birds chirping, the leaves rustling, the fountain running, it all smudged into a silence before reaching his ear. He was panicking, that was evident by his skin paling, his vision blurring and his mind replaying everything. The inevitability of this moment was certain, but George still had no idea how it happened.

One second Hermione Granger was smiling up at him. Her eyes filled with mirth and affection, her lips placing a tender kiss on his cheek, her warm smile widening against his skin. Even her words, as they whispered the request to leave, were filled with a steady joy. Life still thumped through her. And then they apparated.

Her landing outside of Kingsley's castle was anything but steady. She slumped into his side, eyes shut, and a pained expression coated her face. It seemed as though she was fighting to stay alert, but when George whispered her name, her body gave in. Tumbling to the ground and taking George with her, Hermione finally let the exhaustion win.  _I should've known the apparition would be hard on her._  George scolded himself, as he pulled her unconscious form closer.

"Hermione love," Whispering to her, he attempted to coax her out of whatever reality she got herself trapped in. "Wake up love, please." George's voice was hoarse with repressed tears as he spoke, a slight shake to his timber.

"Please," he called to the large head quarters, "Fred help." But still no one. His thumb brushed against her cheek as she shuddered in the terror of remembrance, thankful that her heart rate sped up a little. His hands shook with nerves as he brushed his fingers through her hair. And all George could do was wait. "Merlin what's taking so long?" He yelled in frustration and finally, he saw it.

In the distance, across the walkway, past the entrance garden, behind the fountain, he saw it. The doors to the small castle opened. Flaming hair identical to his own stood out amongst the brick and wood, and George let out the breath he had been holding. The suppressed tears finally released as his twin rushed towards him with Kingsley and his parents in tow.

"George!" Fred yelled, before coming to a stop just before him, "Merlin, is that—"

"Ensure that it's him," Kingsley's voice boomed before George could answer, and suddenly a wand was raised to him.  _Three_ wands were raised to him. He gulped, and looked back down to Hermione, defeat dripping over him slowly. He vaguely recalled Fred's voice asking him a question let alone answering it.

"Georgie," The hushed tone which escaped Fred was comforting. Kneeling next to his brother, Fred draped an arm over George's shoulders and finally their eyes met.

"Freddie, help," George felt the tears dripping off his chin but did nothing to hide them. Fear filled him and he gulped down a silent sob before Fred nodded. Pulling the pack off of George's shoulders and tossing it to their father, Fred stood up. Together, they lifted the witch up into George's arms and began hurrying towards the entrance.

"Hermione," Molly's voice, laced with shock, asked gently, but there was no time to answer questions. Something which Fred seemed to understand as well.

"Mum, bruise balm, bone cure, and all the potions that are bottled downstairs." The list Fred gave, stern and controlled, was full off a knowledge George had no idea Fred knew, but for some reason it calmed him. He trusted in his twin, knowing somehow Fred, in the short time they were separated, knew what he was doing. "Get them and meet me in the infirmary."

There was an authority to Fred which their mother seemed to blindly accept, and George could not help the subtle pride which swelled in his chest. They raced up the stairs, Fred leading them higher up into the fortress, before bursting through the black doors on the third floor. "Set her down here."

George could only comply, relieved to relinquish control to the only person he trusted so fully. Well, other than Hermione. Fred began removing the bandage on her ankle, rolling up her pant leg. The swelling from her ankle rose up to her knee, the run obviously doing more damage than Hermione or he expected. The bruises which seemed so large in such a short time caused a hitch in George's breath and he felt his legs give out beneath him.

Collapsing to his knees next to the bed, George's hand clasped Hermione's as he turned to look at Fred.

"It was only her ankle earlier," he whispered far too quiet to hear, but Fred did. Responding with a curt nod, as Molly came rushing into the infirmary, vials and bottles filling her arms.

"Mum, pain potion first," he said, but George could not bear it any longer. He turned to gaze at Hermione, focusing on her, not registering the words his brother and mother were saying. He just watched with slight terror widening his eyes, as they forced potions into her mouth, tilting her head back so ensure it went down her throat.

Slowly Fred and Molly worked their way up from injury to injury, seemingly ignoring the large bloodied bandage on her ribs. Fred often turned to ask George for information on each bruise, each cut, needing to know a timeline of the occurrence. He complied numbly, mumbling responses, but never letting his eyes leave Hermione's face.

His fingers stroked through her hair, dipping down to brush his thumb across her cheek on occasion. Merlin, she was beautiful. George could feel the intensity of her strength pulsing through her. She fought for life, for freedom, for joy, and he gaped in wonder at the beauty of her determination. The feminine features of her face softened slightly at the affects of the potions, reminding him of all the qualities she possessed. Her compassion, her will, her brains. She was bloody perfect.

A sharp intake of breath drew him out of his musings. His eyes met Fred's before noticing the bandage he held in his hand. Glancing at his mum, he noticed her stare, wide and fearful, focused on Hermione's side. The words marring Hermione's skin fuelling a mix of pity, sympathy and sadness within the older witch, as she brushed away the tears. George wanted to growl, he wanted to berate them on their emotions, explain that this was a sign of her bravery and strength but Molly's voice spoke before he could.

"The skin seems to be turning black around the wound," she noted, emotion devoid from her tone drawing Fred's attention once more to the injury. With a nod, he attempted to pour a potion on the abrasion, but Fred's brows furrowed with confusion when nothing happened.

"How fresh is this one Georgie," Fred asked, his attention never wavering from the gash and his tongue peeking out the side of his lips. But George could not answer, his words left him as he remembered the day she was lasted tortured. Turning back to Hermione, he ran his fingers up and down her forearm just as he did when she returned that fateful night. He wanted so badly for her to wake up and smile up at him like she had before they apparated. Fred's stern voice drawing his focus once more. "George, how old is this wound?"

"Three weeks," he mumbled feeling embarrassed, as if he should have known how to heal it. George should have known how to protect her.

"And it hasn't healed in the slightest?" George shook his head. "Mum, it's not clotting. I can't heal this one, but I think I know what it is." Fred and Molly exchanged a knowing glance, but George did not notice. He felt like a part of him was broken watching her. How injured she was; it was his fault. He should have stopped them.

"I'll send for Bill." He hardly even heard the rest of his mother's voice welcoming him back. George, however happy to return, felt alone. His breath hitched as he realized the magnitude of emotion rushing to the forefront. If Hermione died today, he would be empty. Emptier than he was now with her just injured and she was still in this world. The fading foot falls which echoed off of the walls of the infirmary mirrored his solitude. George promised he would never leave her, but he never thought Hermione would leave him.

* * *

The silence thundered off the walls of the infirmary, the soft ticking of the clock on the wall acting as a metronome as it kept a perfect tempo. Glancing up, Fred Weasley paled at how much time actually passed since his brother arrived with a nearly dead Hermione Granger in his arms. He spent the last hour and a half working his, pun intended, healing magic, but now, after what felt like minutes, Fred was defeated. Exhaustion soaked through him, and he slumped forward in his chair.

Fiery locks were clenched between fingers, the stress of healing left uncompleted made Fred's heart heavy, and, as he let out a soft breath, he realized how incompetent he truly felt. Hermione's side, just the thought of the wound sending a shiver through him, could not be fixed. Not with simple healing magic. Complex spells and potions were needed, ones he was not familiar with. Ones that required the trained eyes of his elder brother, Bill Weasley, but until then, the wound was left untreated.

Never had Fred felt this mixture of emotion before. Dejection and elation. He failed at fixing something so vile, something so gruesome, that it could only be a torment of war. Yet, the relief that washed over his entire being was like no other. Not only had Hermione returned, but George Weasley, his twin brother, was back as well. And more or less in one piece, at least physically. Emotionally, on the other hand, now that was a completely different story.

A looming emotion blanketed George, something which Fred could never understand. A result of an experience one never wished to endure. George was left with scars, scars which marked his bravery, scars which would constantly remind him of how much evil lingered in the world. Scars which eluded Fred's comprehension.

Glancing up from the foot of Hermione's bed, unsure of what to say, Fred watched George. How he had not moved, not once since Hermione was brought into the infirmary. George still rested next to her, his hand still clasping hers, rubbing circles on her skin with his thumb. Tired eyes were locked on the rise and fall of her stomach, ensuring she was alive, but George's head hung low. His breaded chin almost touching his chest, allowing his hair to fall in front of his eyes. His breathing, Merlin, it was ragged. Breaths choking with unshed emotion. And he did not speak, not since mum went to send word for Bill. Fred knew then, watching his brother break at the seams that George was in love with Hermione.

Taking an unsteady breath of his own, Fred placed his head in his hands, shutting his eyes tight as his palms pressed hard against his face. The dreams, horrible dreams, of his twin being tortured still lingered in Fred's mind. Before, when  _they_  had captured George, it plagued Fred constantly, but now it was a different image standing in the forefront: George's return. It blazed against Fred's closed lids and haunted him in a way beyond anything he had ever seen.

His eyes, George's ice blue eyes, once filled with an innocent mirth were a shadow of former happiness. Glazed with a layer of tears, which dripped down to his stubble coated chin, the ghost waters were wide with fear. George had looked so broken, panicked, as an unbridled terror radiated and crashed in large tidal waves onto Fred.

And his voice, hoarse and childlike, only echoed that dread, shaking Fred to the core. Just thinking about it, George on his knees, hands holding Hermione tight to him, as he pleaded for him, for help. It left Fred without words. Only nodding then, Fred was able to push his focus on the task at hand. Now however, taking in the memory and present, Fred still lacked articulation.

What could he say? George had been tortured and obviously witnessed Hermione's torture as well, if not the very least, the after affects of it. There was nothing Fred could do to take that away. But he had to try right? He had to offer some form of outlet. For George. He was his twin after all.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Fred's voice was soft as he lifted his head to look at his brother, though George did not meet his gaze.

"Hmm," George was obviously too engrossed within his mind to have heard the question.

"What happened," Fred continued, his voice a little stronger than before, more sure of himself. "Do you want to talk about it?" George just softly shook his head before finally meeting Fred's eye.

"No," he paused before continuing. "What happened," his eyes returned to Hermione. "It can't be explained in words." But Fred was not the least bit upset about George's secrecy on the subject. To be honest, he was not quite sure he could bear hearing the details.

"So," He started again, after a moment of silence, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Granger?"

"Wh-What?" George's voice cracked as he snapped his eyes back to Fred, and Fred's smirk only widen into a small grin, glad to lighten the mood, even if it was brief.

"You fancy Granger."

"I-I," A heavy sigh escaped him, as if he had been holding in an immense weight, and George turned his focus back to Hermione, "Yeah, I do." There was another beat of silence before Fred spoke up again, wanting to keep his brother engaged in conversation.

"Ron is going to kill you." Fred said with ease, knowing the reaction he would receive. He wanted to pull George away from fear and anger was a good start.

"Ron is the reason she was almost killed." The response was sharp, like a sword moving swiftly through the air, and though his voice had not risen in volume, it was laced with venom. George's hand, the one not occupied by Hermione's, tightened on the bed sheet; knuckles turning white with a waning control.

"Still," Fred knew he was pushing his luck now, "He will be furious."

"Yeah," the same venom drenched George's voice but a slight betrayal lingered behind his words and though George released the blanket, his hand shook with the shivers of anger. Fred knew that George assumed sides were taken.

"That doesn't mean I agree with him y'know," Fred said flatly and George seemed to suddenly relax from shock.

"It doesn't?" He asked, unsure but surprised, and Fred chuckled. His brother was easy to read.

"Little brother or not," though Fred's tone softened, it was still full of a joking amusement, "You're my twin, who I just got back," he smiled, pausing for a moment, choking on his words slightly. Clearing his throat, Fred continued. "And, y'know for a fact I would always stand behind you."

"Thanks," The anger in him dissipating slightly and George smiled down at Hermione briefly, "She's a fighter this one." Fred whispered a soft 'yea' before George added. "Least I can do is fight for her right?" George's words were so quiet, Fred thought he may have not of heard him speak at all, but George was glancing up at him now and Fred could only respond with a gulp and nod.

The seriousness of the question took Fred by surprise. He wanted to assure George that he indeed had fought hard, that George was strong enough to fight whatever needed for her, but the words, which lodged in his throat, were cut off.

"I don't know where," a soft whisper came from the bed and both twins glanced over at the unconscious woman. Fred's eyes were smothered with surprise. The dreamless sleep was supposed to be just that, dreamless. And yet, her fingers twitched before she settled again. Another soft murmur came out, though this time unintelligible, and George instantly settled it with gentle whispering.

"Shh love," he gripped her hand tighter, while his fingers stroked through her chestnut tresses. "I'm here," and suddenly Fred felt like he was intruding on a very intimate moment. So, slowly, he stood, walked over to George and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. George stayed focused on Hermione.

"For what it's worth," Fred said slowly, knowing George would not look up to him, but was listening. "Ron never deserved her. He never fought for her." With a soft smile, and a squeeze of the shoulder, Fred left his twin to have some privacy with the woman he loved.


	15. Awakenings

  
**Love and War Chapter 14  
** **Awakenings**   


* * *

The line between emotions is often danced upon. Content with the deafening silence, George Weasley twirled amidst devotion and obsession as he waited. Refusing to move, he kept vigil by Hermione Granger's bedside. The steady rise and fall of her chest was a comforting reminder of her strengthening health, but, until her eyes opened, George faced the rawest of realities. The imminent possibility of deprivation, a prospect that he hated more than anything.

The smooth skin of her face, unwrinkled by pain and memory, eased his discomfort slightly as he withdrew further into the depths of his mind. In such a short amount of time, George developed an undeniably strong connection with the woman before him. Trauma, however, tends to do that. The weeks they spent in joint capture seemingly transformed to months, but, if George was honest with himself, their attraction went far beyond that. He sighed in defeat, Hermione's hand in his. No, their bond had rapidly strengthened due to the horrors, but it had definitely been there.

A memory flashed before him, an innocent pre-war Hermione. The way she worried her lip when she focused on her work, the way she purposely dropped her hair to shield her face as she blushed, the twinkle of mischief in her hazel eyes when she broke the rules. That woman was no more. Closing his eyes, he let out a shivering breath. Resisting her was futile the instant his eyes landed on her lifeless form at Malfoy manor.

It was moment that would always haunt him. A moment that mirrored the present. Her body laid peaceful, blind to the surroundings outside of her unconscious mind. Except now, instead of the abused stone foundation, a soft mattress acted as support. They were secure in the compounds of Kingsley's safe house, yet the emotion he experienced then increased tenfold. Running his fingers through his hair roughly, he realized the obvious: George Weasley was forever bound to Hermione Granger.

Shaken to the core at that revaluation, he looked to her, his tired blue orbs swirling with a whirlpool of fear, a fear of losing the one thing precious to him. Fingers traced the soft skin of her cheek and George felt the heat of life humming under the ivory flesh. Her breath was coming out steady and soft from her lips, brushing past his thumb. He knew now if she had died, he would not have made it.

George never experienced a connection this powerful. Not even with Fred. Fred anticipated his actions and could almost read his mind. They shared a binding that only twins could while Hermione was on a level like no other. Her beating heart was what gave him purpose. Her touch made a fire course through him, passion and ambition rushing in his veins instead of blood. She fuelled him with a new and intense sort of magic. The life bestowed on her was his satisfaction, making all existence vanish.

The door opened with a soft creak, but it went unnoticed. As did the footsteps nearing closer. Somehow, the gentle clinking of china, seemingly louder than a thousand screaming banshees, dragged George out of his trance. Reflexes, still sharpened due to the current war, caused his body to tense. His fingers hesitated against Hermione's cheek before travelling the same pattern as the presence of another body finally registered.

"Fred," Not turning in the direction of his counterpart as he spoke, George let his shaggy red locks fall before his eyes. This may have been unnerving to the outside world, but Fred was unfazed. Wordlessly, he handed George a cup of hot tea and settled into a chair at the foot of Hermione's bed.

They were stilled in silence, letting it crash over them in light rolling waves. George's attention never wavered from the woman he so deeply cared for as he brought his tea up to his lips. Fred, however, did not mind. He was lost in a train of thought; one that George was not privy. Therefore, when Fred spoke, his tone unsure and puzzled, George promptly spilled some of his tea.

"Shell shock," Fred began, easing into the topic never being one of his strong points. "That's what the muggle healing manuals call it. You aren't experiencing it right?" Glancing up from his tea soaked trousers, George finally met his twin's gaze. The dark circles of fatigue stood out against the pale skin of Fred's face; sleep had obviously escaped him.  _This must be serious,_ George thought, using his wand to clean the spill.

"We have to be sure you aren't George. The cur-," Trailing off before clearing his throat, Fred adopted an authoritative tone, letting it morph from his lips with ease, "The curses they used have some serious affects post casting. Mental instability is most prominent and there are precautions Georgie, ones I'm looking into." With a nod of his head inclined in the direction of the bed, Fred added, "We've got to make sure she isn't either."

"Nightmares," George swallowed his nerves, letting them settle in the pit of his stomach.

"How long," Immediately summoning some parchment and a quill, Fred began writing hurried notes. The routine was familiar, both twins falling into their respective roles without difficulty; George was often the test subject for their products while Fred observed: the case study and the researcher.

"Since the first night out," The soft scratches of the ink on paper were soothing, as strange as that was. George reclined in his chair, feeling the aches of his back as they readjusted to the new position. "I think it was her first time really resting."

"Not just being unconscious," The reply, softened with a natural understanding, caused George to fill with a brotherly pride. Fred really was a natural and innovative healer. "Mum may do a scan then," Pausing before he asked, "Is she having any lapses of reality?"

"Hmm?" The furrowing of George's brows highlighted his confusion, as the hum of response escaped. The quill drew to a halt, the relentless calm sending George's nerves on edge once more.

"Reliving memory while awake?" Looking to Hermione, George sighed softly.

"Like flashbacks?"

"Exactly," Fred smiled, and George only shrugged. He suspected them. The entire hike he was concerned about her memories, but whether it was just recollection, he was unsure.

"She remembers, 'course she does, we both do, but I don't know about reliving." The quill had yet to record the new information, nor settle George's anxiety in the slightest. Thinking of Hermione's side effects right now, when she had yet to wake, was not helpful. "Healing huh?"

"Yea," the smirk on Fred's face lingered with recognition, George's change of subject not lost on him. "I like helping, Georgie. It's like with all the products you made. Not the pranks, but the getaway charms and defence wards. You made hundreds, and I never knew why, but I guess it's the same with me and healing. I like helping, and I think I can try and figure out a lot of what is not known yet."

"I'm really proud of you Freddie," George said with a smile, but before they could continue, a soft groan came from the bed. Immediately, both turned their attention back to the injured witch, George ready to comfort her through another nightmare and Fred ready to be of medical assistance. There was a flutter of her lashes and Fred must have seen it too, because he was immediately standing and summoning pain potions. With another soft flick, her lids opened fully, disorientation blanketing her face.

Her eyes searched without seeing, hazy and unfocused around the large bright room. Cupping her cheek gently, George ran his thumb against her cheek, happy to have her for the most part alert. Her amber eyes locked with his blue ones, finally focusing on him. The realisation was instantaneous when it hit. A brilliant grin bringing her face to life with joy. Though her voice was a hoarse whisper, an unbridled bliss danced amongst her utterance.

"George?"

* * *

The flashes appeared first. Bright bursts of colour lingering amongst the blackness that surrounded Hermione Granger. Until then, she had floated through the emptiness of her inner mind, now Hermione swam through it. Suddenly, the space was viscous; thick with sparks of memory hovering sporadically, acting as windows that displayed glimpses of the past. It was enough to set her on edge, even in the vast expanse of nothingness, and then she heard the voices.

Muffled, but still distinct, the words circled around in a slurred soundtrack. The record, once blank and untouched, was etched with the hazed mummers of human conversation. The spotlights only grew larger, drew nearer, and pulled her out of the peaceful seclusion she retreated to. Something for which Hermione was not entirely ready.

She had been immersed. Only once had she felt a rippling fear, but was immediately quelled by some outside source. Warmth had filled her, dunking her in a vat of serenity, and then she had settled. Resting at the bottom, Hermione had drowned and relished in the calm. She would have stayed submerged for eternity, but Hermione knew that was a fool's hope.

The twinkles of light traced the outside of her vision, guiding Hermione to a greater purpose. There was a distracting softness beneath her. The warmth that covered her was just baffling and the voices overhead grew in intensity. With a soft shiver, her eyes slowly opened and, immediately, went blind.

White light shocked her sight. Her limbs, stiff with either potions or fatigue, struggled to gain mobility. The cracks of her joints echoed, protesting against the movement, as her fingered attempted to wrap around her wand only to come up empty. The breaths she took were fast huffs causing her heart to thud against her ribs in a rapid rhythm. Hermione was panicking.

Glancing around frantic, waiting for clear vision, Hermione grew increasingly nervous. She played through all the worst-case scenarios. Recapture being the most prominent, but Hermione toyed with the idea of her own death. Being stuck in a limbo like heaven. It was then she noticed it.

On her right, towering above her bedside, the black blur. Her mind filled in the details, smudging the lines to create a concrete form. Flowing black robes and lanky arms. Claws peeking out from low sleeves and dark shaggy hair hiding the white tips of sharpened teeth. Fenrir Greyback.

Every fear flooded her senses, causing her body to tense with the anticipation of pain. She shut her eyes tight, the memories projecting against the backdrop, reminding her all that transpired. Feeling the ache of every injury, she watched as the replay surrounded her. The capture. The escape. The forest. The field. George.  _George,_ the scream of her thoughts caused a shiver to rustle through her. Had they not escaped at all? Had that been falsity conjured to inflict more torture? What happened to George? Hermione did not know but she was petrified.

A gentle touch, comforting and reassuring, suddenly coated her cheek, sucking all the terror out. Slow feather light circles traced her jaw line, basting her skin with a thick layer of buttery relief. It was familiar and loving, warm and kind, the act so intimate in the emotion it invoked, and Hermione turned into it.

Her eyes snapped open regaining clarity instantly; the glare finally peeled off. Merlin, how happy she was to see him. His hair, a flaming red mess, sticking out in different directions. His eyes, a silvery ice blue, shining with tender mirth, locked with her gold lined amber. His lips, spread wide with a blissful grin, brightened his tired face. George Weasley was definitely a welcome sight.

"George?" She asked with a rough thickness, and his grin grew.

"Thank Merlin you're awake," His breath sailed out in relief. Gingerly, Hermione tried to sit up, her forearms giving out beneath her before she made it up against the pillows.

"Stay down will you, Granger," a slyness slid over her attempts, and Hermione's eyes widened.  _Greyback_. Was he not just there? Was he not just looming over her right where Fred now stood? Then it hit her.

"Fred?" Her question was timid and though it needed none, George nodded in confirmation. Fred Weasley. Fred bloody Weasley. His presence only meant one thing, a very precious and important thing. They really were free. They were out. They were  _home_. The day Hermione prayed for had finally come. Happy tears stung at the corners of her eyes, begging to be released, but with a shuddering breath were contained.

"How're you feeling?" George brushed the strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

"Sore," she shrugged, "but much better. Where are we?"

"Head quarters," The shriek the chair legs against the stone punctuated Fred voice, as he moved to sit closer to her. "It's good to have you home, Granger."

"It's good to be home," the wistfulness of her words made everything seem too surreal. The happiness that elated through her was an out of body experience. The war just outside their doors still raged. Witches, wizards and muggles were being terrorised as evil bloodied the world and Hermione felt guilty at the happiness bubbling through her. Their escape should not be celebrated until all the evil was defeated. "My wand?" Her fingers itched with an empty anticipation, before Fred handed it to her.

They fell into a content silence. Hermione rolled her wand in between her thumb and index finger, enjoying the security it brought. The heat of its dragon core radiating through the vine, humming to life at her touch, rushing up her arm, through her chest and to the tips of her other hand. A bridge of physical magic connected her wand and George. Her body was the generator of the wonders she loved most, and was the housing for the salvation which Hermione needed. George and her wand, they worked in parallel to fuel a fight in Hermione, strive for a redemption that she felt may be long gone.

Fred cleared his throat, eying the wand in her grasp with curiosity. Glancing down she noticed its happy green glow, and her eyes furrowed. The personality of wands have always been one of speculation, but as it buzzed and brightened with life, Hermione guessed it was basking in the luxury of home as much as she was. Tucking it into the waistband of her pants, she noticed the unwavering flash of blue on either side of her.

George's blue eyes watched her, devotion and an indefinable emotion swirling, mimicking the pattern his thumb traced on her skin. It surprised her to find Fred's actions to be mirrored, but while George radiated with an alluring affection, Fred seemed to study her. His contemplative gaze, was focused on her movements and state of healing. His concern, while strange to some, was refreshing to Hermione. It was a definite change from the death eater's disregard and, smiling over at George in the kind atmosphere, her thoughts drifted.

Unable to settle on one topic, Hermione took in her surroundings. The large infirmary mimicked that of Hogwarts. A sea of neatly made white beds encompassed most of the area. High ceilings hung over head, and Hermione quickly averted her gaze from the stone. Many strong warriors' last sight was the intricate carving above, and Hermione refused to be one of them.

"Would you like to walk down to breakfast?" Looking at the desk in the corner, overflowing with healing books and potion ingredients, Fred's voice cascaded over her observations. "It'll help strengthen your ankle, walking on it." Realisation dawned on her once more; they were free and Fred was her  _healer_.

"I suppose," taking in the idea that Fred witnessed the severity of the wounds, Hermione swallowed her embarrassment. The letters etched in her side, the twisted state of her ankle, the red gashes running down the length of her back. He saw it all. With wide eyes, she again felt the unmistakable sting. Fingers immediately clutched at her ribs, feeling the clean bandage, slightly damp with fresh blood. "George," There was a slight panic edging her voice. The wince echoed through the infirmary as Hermione attempted to move and George helped her.

"Fred, mum and I are the only ones that know." he said in a rush while his arm wrapped around her waist, the tips of his fingers rubbing soothing patterns on her side. "No one else will, except Bill."

"B-Bill," she sputtered out confused.

"He has experience with this type of dark magic," Fred's words were tender. Compassion lingered in the air and, despite knowing which wound needed to be investigated, the awkwardness of the situation dissipated. "Your side, I promise it will stay between us, but Bill has to see it. I think he's the only one in the order who can heal it properly."

"Ok," she nodded, glancing up at Fred, who now joined his brother in aiding her movements.

"When you're ready put some weight on it." Fred instructed. Hesitantly at first, she put a little weight on her ankle, testing to see how well it supported her. Having taken bone cure before, Hermione knew the uncomfortable process of bone hardening. The area of the break tended to be softened, weaker than usual, until the bone restructured fully. She was surprised when the normal ache was absent. "How does it feel?"

"Surprisingly strong," she muttered, testing the bone further. It ached, but nowhere near as bad as it should. Her ankle felt stiffer than anything, as if needing to be loosened, and Hermione sighed in satisfaction. "How is this possible?"

"I ground the snake fangs with lavender-" Fred began, only to be cut off by George.

"Seeds?" George interjected. "The potency of the seeds being less than a full plant. That would speed and-"

"Stabilise the healing without complication," Hermione finished with a repressed excitement, "That's brilliant. Have you worked on any modifications?"

"I, well, I-uh," He stuttered, taken aback by the compliment, "Yes, I've been looking into the side effects of the unforgi—"

"Maybe we should get some breakfast first?" George interjected suddenly, as he glared at Fred with a look that spoke wonders. His eyes burned a hole through his twin, his lips twitched with an irritation, his fingers fidgeted in an antsy pace. The words were basically written on his forehead.  _Not now Fred_ , silently and effectively ended Fred's sentence.

"Yes," Fred said with a clearing of his throat and a curt nod, "Best left for another time then." The air was a little tense, but it dispelled as they moved toward the exit of the infirmary. George's arm was wrapped around Hermione's waist for support, since the bone cure modification was still quite new, while Fred walked a head, moving all could be obstacles from their path. Just as they reached the door, while Fred held the heavy dark oak ajar, Hermione paused.

"Thank you Fred," She said, rising on her toes, easily giving him a gentle hug. "For everything."

Swaying as she pulled out of the embrace, her balance wavered. George was there instantly, wrapping his arm around her once more, smiling down at her. Hermione's stomach fluttered at the touch, feeling the intensity of emotions circle through her. The silver, which circled the edges of his blue eyes, seemed to sparkle as she stared up at him with a matching smile. Even through all that transpired, staring up into the warm, moonlight blue oceans as he held her safe and close, Hermione was certain nothing could be better. She was sure this was bliss.

The three began their descent down the stairways. The first flight of stairs being the hardest on her injuries, but it was not painful. Her muscles adjusted to her movements as George's fingers traced circles on her hip, and they moved to a more populated area of the stronghold. By the second flight, Hermione no longer needed George's support, but lingered in the comfort his touch brought. Kingsley passed them on this stairway, welcoming them home to safety. He eyed them warily, a look that flipped between concern and mercy floating between them, and Hermione could only nod helplessly. George's arm pulled her closer to his side knowingly.

When they finally did reach main floor the chatter from the kitchen could be heard. Not loud enough to be overwhelming, but Hermione still hesitated. Her ankle felt fully functional, and regretfully, she removed herself from George's grasp as they moved down the hallway. With the cool air drifting over her and the familiar voices growing in strength, Hermione felt alone. His hand reached for hers, pulling her to the side of the corridor.

"It's just mum, dad and Ginny," George whispered into her ear, the swinging door of the kitchen in sight. "If it starts getting too much, squeeze my hand, and we will go back upstairs, alright?" he asked, and Hermione nodded, thankful that his fingers were woven with hers as they pushed through the door together.

"Hermione," Molly called out happily as they made their way to the table. Though her voice and actions were laced joy, her eyes lingered with an unmistakable pity. Moreover, Hermione knew it all had changed then. While Fred's voice, actions and eyes only hinted to compassion, Molly's were filled with mercy. She was pitied. Nothing but a child, worn by war, always to be looked down upon as a broken troubled mess.

"I missed you," Ginny said abruptly, before Hermione could delve further. Quick steps rushed towards her, and Hermione panicked, finally glancing to Ginny. Her approach was sudden, her movements alarming, as she attempted to, Hermione assumed, embrace her, but Ginny just stopped half way. Arms falling limp at her side. Nodding to the breakfast table, and Hermione felt even more pity.

Her best friend would not even hug her. She was so broken that no one knew what to do with her. Hermione's hand was cold for a brief moment. Empty without George's hand, Hermione feared George reconsidered his previous allegiance. She feared that the emotions painted in his face were a falsity; that really he pitied her, just like his family. Then his arm slung around her shoulders.

 _I won't leave you,_  George's whisper rung through her ears. The gentle tug of the promise he had made in the tent eased her. Even though everyone was constantly staring at her, even though her mind was, in her opinion, pathetically broken, George Weasley would stand by her. His fingers traced the familiar pattern up her forearm, the one which calmed her, and she felt the privacy he brought with him..

It was only them. Settling at the table, the two took part in a private breakfast, despite the many plates set. His actions screamed out his faithfulness. Placing a large helping of bacon and eggs on both of their plates, flashing a light hearted smile, and running his fingers up her arm. He promised to face this with her, and his unwavering support was on full display in that moment.

The glint of a knife caught her eye, Arthur's fingers gripping the handle, cutting his breakfast, and her back burned with reopened gashes. She bit her lip, gnawing at the tender rose coloured flesh, as she felt the blade tip pierce. It ran down along the length of her spine in parallel cuts, and Hermione's eyes watered. Looking elsewhere, she noticed a flash of blood. Ginny's painted nails reflected the candlelight as she brought her glass to her lips. The shining bright colour dripped down the witches fingers, down the clear cup and onto the white tablecloth in large blots. Blinking, the red streaks vanished, hardened on Ginny's nails once more.

 _Filthy Mud blood,_  words hissed, but no one seemed to notice Bellatrix's voice. Hermione jerked slightly. Casting her eyes down to the plate before her, shivering with unease, George pulled her tighter to him.

She vaguely remembered Arthur giving a small toast welcoming both George and her back to safety, but she did clearly remember the soft sniffles coming from Molly's end of the table. The pang of guilt which resonated through Hermione, echoed through her soul. Putting the Weasley's son in danger during the hike the way she did, reckless determination to reach freedom. Merlin, they must all hate her for how selfish she was.

"Hermione dear," Molly said, her voice thick with emotion, "eat." However, Hermione only stared at her plate. Surely, Molly did not mean that. How could they want her there when George's life had been hanging in the balance with her own? Was this a trick? They all stared at her, as if judging her movements, waiting for her to take a bite of the forbidden fruit.

"It's alright," George whispered gently, quiet enough that no one else could hear, "It's safe I promise." Reassured, Hermione delicately picked up her fork, taking a tentative bite, and everyone seemed to focus away from her. George's comforting security never wavered even after the family's eyes averted from her form. His fingers continued the path up the length of her forearm and his arm was still slung around her shoulders. With the rest of the table drifting into a content group conversation, one lacking both George and Hermione's voices, and with his warmth wrapping around her, Hermione finally let herself drown in the prospect. She was home.


	16. Nightmares

**Love and War Chapter 15  
Nightmares**

* * *

It came in waves. Panic lead the charge barrelling through the space in an invisible rush. Pain followed burning the skin in a stinging cloak. Then, confusion cooled over the tender sensation smothering the flames. The pattern, which cycled quickly, was beyond bewildering. The emotions were intense, the combination of feeling blistering the air, and Ginny Weasley felt like she was losing control.

An 'empath'. That is the clinical term to explain her abilities. "Wizarding Abnormalities" classified her as 'one who could read and affect the emotions of others'. The ability to be affected by others' emotions, let alone affect change, it was a skill that required a great deal of restraint. At three years old, she hardly grasped any form of dominance, but after training herself to gain power of her gift, Ginny mastered her grip on what feelings were allowed to affect her own sanity. This was necessary living in a house full of boys, and came in handy within a war safe house, yet now, Ginny could not stop the onslaught of terror. The pain, the panic and the confusion radiated in the air and Ginny knew the source: Hermione Granger.

A shudder pulsed through Ginny as she peaked over at the bed before her. Hermione lay on her side, eyes trained on the potions table across the large hall made into an infirmary. Her lips were drawn in a thin line and her arms gripped the pillow, which her head rested on tightly. She had hardly moved a muscle since George left the medical ward. An instance with such palpability, Ginny still studied the occurrence.

Finally, Ginny had mustered the courage to fight the pain of feeling and hugged Hermione fiercely in welcome, clinging to her with all the love she could convey, and throughout the rest of the day, Ginny had accompanied both Hermione and George in walk around Kingsley's Castle. She had guided them through the stronghold, explaining the passwords and defence wards. The air had actually seemed to clear as the day went on, and after lunch and dinner, Hermione's mind hardly hurt to be around. Until now of course.

The wince George had made when he had scratched his back was an immediate signal for Fred. Instantly, George's wounds had become the most important of tasks, taking precedent to all else. That was when Hermione had tensed. It had been so slight, Ginny was certain, even now, that no one but her had noticed. There was a silent reluctance in Hermione when she had pushed George out the large wood doors of the infirmary and to the bathrooms so his wounds could be washed and mended. Her body had become rigid with fear even as George pressed his lips to Hermione's forehead and promised he would return. Hermione's nod had been nothing but fluid, but Ginny had felt the tremors. Tremors that still shook through the infirmary.

Settling cross-legged on the bed in front of Hermione's line of vision, Ginny realized how much must have happened in Malfoy manor. The shame Hermione felt at being so fragile bittered the room and Ginny sighed, knowing that normalcy was needed now more than ever.

"So," she began, Hermione's gaze refusing to break from the steam bellowing up over the bubbling cauldron. "You and George huh?"

"Ginny," Hermione started with a soft groan, though a smile tugged at her lips. "I just got back."

"And what a better way to celebrate than with telling me all about you and George," Ginny said, a playfulness clinging around her words, and Hermione relaxed slightly.  _Good,_  Ginny thought, knowing she took a step in making this safe house more of a comfort for Hermione.

"Nothing to tell really," Hermione mumbled, sitting up on the bed, finally meeting her friend's gaze, "We are just close."

"But," Ginny smirked, drawing out the moment of silence with a raised questioning brow. Hermione eyed the cauldron once more, fascination masking her face in avoidance of Ginny's inquisition. Her gaze was fixated on the potion being brewed, curious as to its purpose. Ginny had to admit it, she too was curious as to what Fred was brewing, but more important matters were at hand. "You do fancy him, right?"

"I-I" Hermione's eyes snapped back to Ginny as she stammered to make a coherent response, "Well-I-You see, the thing is um."

"You don't even try and lie," Ginny interjected and Hermione flushed a deep crimson immediately halting her sputtering. "I can see it," Ginny said with finality, "You fancy George."

"Yes, I suppose I do." Hermione whispered, though Ginny did not need Hermione's confirmation.

"He's mad about you, y'know," With a softened voice Ginny quelled any discomfort Hermione had over the topic, another relief for Ginny's psyche "Absolutely bonkers. He always has been."

"He what?" Hermione hummed unsure, and Ginny only smiled knowingly.

"George has always been mad about you," the pause felt impregnated by intrigue, and Ginny was urged to continue, "Whether or not he realized it, that's another story, but he definitely has always been mad about you Hermione."

"I don't understand," Hermione said, her brows draw together in contemplation.

"It's very simple really Hermione: George fancies you something fierce." Rubbing her fingers against her left temple Hermione focused on what Ginny was conveying, obviously perturbed. "I am not suggesting anything wicked happen between you and my brother, not yet anyway," Ginny winked, while Hermione groaned in mortification. "What I am suggesting is you open your eyes to the reality that both of you are completely head over heels for each other, maybe even say something about it. It may help you move past what happened while you were-" Ginny trailed off, her voice tapering at the end of her sentence, not wanting to, but unable to stop from dwelling on thoughts of her friend's capture.

"Maybe," Hermione said with a clearing of her throat, clearly feeling uneasy on the topic, but Ginny felt drawn to it.

"I-I," Ginny began, trying to overcome the words which were clogging her throat. How she had feared for Hermione when she was first captured. How she had an immense form of dread when not a word was heard of her state. How she had cried every night hoping for the safe return of her adopted sister. "It's just good to have you back, Hermione." Was all she managed to say, tears stinging at her eyes, and Hermione mustered a soft 'thank you, Gin' before the two girls both fell silent once more.

This silence, however, was not riddled in an anxiety anymore. It was comfortable, familiar in its settling. It was as if they were transported back to their younger years when shared a room at the burrow or Grimmauld Place was where they stayed. The night seemed to catch up to the present, the tiring waking hours taking a final toll on both Hermione and Ginny.

Both drifted in their thoughts, their breathing evening out into slow slumbered swells within the copious calm of the medical quarters. Ginny's eyes closed on their own accord as she gently succumbed the nearing slumber. Her breaths tuffed out between her rose coloured lips, matching the rhythm of the ticking clock, but sleep would not reach Ginny.

A sudden sharp scream echoed off the high ceilings before morphing into a series of pained, almost breathless, gasps, and Ginny bolted up. With her wand at the ready and eyes wide, the redhead assumed her fighting stance ready to take on whatever danger lurked in the room. But, who was in danger exactly? Who made that fearful shout?

"I don't know," was whispered, but it was just as loud as the scream to Ginny who was on high alert. In the emptiness of the infirmary, the voice carried over to her, and immediately she locked eyes with the thrashing form of Hermione Granger. "I don't know where," she muttered in her sleep before those same breathless gasps escaped her lips.

"Hermione?" Ginny asked needlessly. She knew it was useless, it was so obvious to anyone looking on that Hermione was having, reliving, a nightmare in her subconscious, but it was all Ginny could do. She stood there, absolutely stock still, unsure on what to say. Unsure on how to act.

"Not George, I swear I don't kn—" A raw cry left Hermione's throat, cutting the words short. With her back bowed upward in a frightening convulsion, Hermione called out in a blood-curdling shriek. Ginny's feet guided her on their own accord, bursting into a run out of the infirmary and up the flights towards the bathrooms. Her heart raced with horror and uncertainty, her lungs expanded and contracted rapidly with her quick breathing, as her legs carried her to the heavy door of Fred's room.

Out of breath and in a state of shock, Ginny's fist pounded on the oak. The beating of her heart drowned out all sounds and her mind raced as pictures of Hermione clung to the forefront of her thoughts. She needed her brother, the only one who was able to help her best friend, she needed George.

"George!" She cried, tears stinging her eyes, "George, please," she continued, hearing the clatter of falling objects or the frantic responses from inside the room. Her pounding only got more insistent.

"Ginny," she vaguely heard her mother's voice from behind her, but continued her banging, "Sweet heart, what is going on?" Molly tried again, more sternly.

"George!" Ginny said, ignoring the attempts to calm her. George was the family member she needed right now. He was the only one who could reach Hermione in this state.

"Gin," George's form finally materialized in the doorway. His jeans hung low on his hips, his chest bare and full of gashes, which were half healed. His hair was sticking up in different directions, and his eyes were wide and full. Panic was set in his face and it only grew when he realized his sister's condition. "What's happening?"

"Hermione," the only word Ginny was able to speak sailed out of her in a hurried plea. It was the only word she needed to speak. Tears streamed down her cheeks and sobs shook through her body, and that one word triggered George into a run. Ginny followed his path, with both Fred and Molly in tow. Down the stairways, across the hall and finally through the infirmary doors the four Weasley's burst through.

"Love," her brother spoke softly to a thrashing Hermione as Ginny watched on helplessly, unsure how to stop the agony floating around the room. "Love, it's me. It's George. Please wake up." George continued, his hand clutched Hermione's while his other stroked through her hair.

Ginny was transfixed on the scene, mesmerized and disbelieving that her best friend would ever feel this much hurt. She noticed how one of the gashes on George's back had stretched open in his run, fresh blood forming at the surface of his flesh. She noticed the quick rise and fall of his chest, how it matched Hermione's laboured breathing. Ginny even noticed the tremble in George's voice as he leaned in forward to press his lips to Hermione's forehead, pleading with her to wake. Ginny averted her eyes to her feet, the intimacy of the moment becoming evident.

It was clear how right she was about her earlier assessment of his feelings. George was completely in love with Hermione Granger.

The room was silent except for George's reassuring and Hermione's muttering. It filled the expanse of the infirmary, making Ginny quiver, but suddenly, it got still. Calm even. Glancing back up, Ginny saw the shift of Hermione's body, once tense, now relaxed in recognition. The lids covering Hermione's chocolate orbs fluttered open, allowing her to search the room, before landing on George Weasley's smiling face.

"George," Hermione's whisper was clear as a bell, pulling the fear out of Ginny and instantly fillings the hole with relief. From the doorway of the infirmary, Ginny continued to watch the pair, alongside both Molly and Fred.

"I'm right here love," George said with a watery smile, "I'm not going anywhere." Instantly, Hermione's arms wrapped around George's neck, while his snaked around her waist, pulling her into an intimate embrace.

"I was back in Malf—"

"Don't say it love," The words were cut off by George's stern yet soft voice.

"It was the same one," Hermione said. Had Ginny just heard correctly? Had this terror happened before?

"I know," George whispered, before pulling back the covers of the infirmary bed and climbing in with the clearly shaken witch. Ginny's gaze turned to the movement on her left, watching as Fred walked out and down the hall, seemingly perturbed by the reoccurrence of this nightmare. Ginny's eyes were fleeting back and forth from inside and infirmary to Fred's retreating form, unsure of what path to follow, when a soft hand guided her attention.

"I think it's best we leave now, Ginny, darling," her mother's voice softened the air. "George has it covered," she added and with a nod both of the Weasley women walked out of the infirmary.

"Mum," Ginny asked as she reached the bottom of the staircase. "What just happened?"

"It's a common side effect of the war," Molly's words were laced with a sadness that Ginny was only starting to understand. Emotions were a category of life, which, not of her own choosing, immersed Ginny. She was completely aware what feelings indeed felt like, but as she glanced back in the direction of the infirmary, Ginny Weasley realized that maybe there was still a lot more for her to learn.


	17. Changes

**Love and War Chapter 16  
Changes**

* * *

Change. The act or instance of making or becoming different. Change was an occurrence, which evaded control. A happenstance, which had no fair warning. It was an inevitable result of war. Though, Change, however inevitable, was the last thing Fred Weasley expected from his twin brother, George.

Sure, Fred expected a maturing in his brother, especially after being a prisoner of war. Torture did have the tendency to smudge a person's natural glimmer into a jaded patina. Fred knew George would be understandably different in both actions and emotions since his return from capture and was not the least bit surprised to see the childlike lustre, which once dazzled George's face, had darkened into a mask of trauma. What Fred was not prepared for was the complete lack of reason, which seemed to embody George Weasley.

Even now, as he calmly presented the hard evidence to his brother, Fred could see George slipping to a stubborn ignorance, but Fred had to try. He had to push. It was his obligation as a healer to attempt to mend the minds of both George Weasley and Hermione Granger, and he would not quit until he did.

"George," Fred said with a heavy sigh. The makeshift office within Fred's sleeping quarters was borderline disastrous. Healing texts, all pointing to dangers and side effects that had to be addressed, were strewn about the room. "If you just calm down you'll see that this needs to be done soon. Your scan barely came out clean, if you remember. It had to be done twice for accuracy. She needs the treatment if these nightmares continue."

"She doesn't need treatment," George repeated the same stubborn line he had been for days. Six days of the same bull-headed ignorance. Six days of repeated nightmares, that, despite George's constant arguments, only increased with intensity. Hermione Granger was showing complete signs of mental deterioration and needed the potions. "This is just expected backlash Fred." The irritation was evident in George's voice as he dropped his face into the palm of his hands, and Fred could only watch with a mirrored annoyance. "You cannot grasp what it's like, Fred. You weren't there."

"I know you don't want to hear this, George," Fred started, pushing another text open to reveal more supporting research, "There is poison in her blood. She is only going to get worse, but we can stop it, George. If you would just listen—"

"Enough!" George bellowed, slamming the text shut with a powerful force. "She isn't some experiment, Freddie. This isn't some product we are testing. You want to help, I know you do, but listen very carefully when I say she is getting better."

"That might be true but, George," Fred began calmly, hoping for his brother to overlook his protectiveness for one moment and see some form of logic. "She may get better on her own."

"She is," George said with finality, "Her nightmares aren't there when I am." This raised Fred curiosity, and he immediately summoned some parchment and ink, taking hurried notes to add to Hermione's case file.

"What do you mean?" Fred pressed, hoping for a more concrete answer than just a dependence on the comfort of shared experience.

"We stop it together," George's voice was hurried, pulling out the information with a strange form of messy clarity, which oddly enough Fred understood. "For the both of us. The nightmares stop when I am there. We both sleep soundly."

But why? Why was that the case? Was it dependence? Or was it something more, something that, in the magical world, was very powerful? Fred tried to ask. He tried to pull the direction of George's rant to a place of productive insight but George was far to engulfed within his mind. "What if we do bring this up to her, and nothing is wrong, do you know what that'd do?" George paced erratically.

The pieces were finally starting to fall into place. Fred was finally starting to understand George's hesitation. "It'd kill her. It'd give her hope. Hope that a potion could take it all away. That it could be fixed and then, nothing. It won't change anything." George was spitting out his unfiltered rambles and all Fred could do was sit there immobilised. George continued his route back and forth across the cluttered office, hand running through his red hair nervously, tugging at the strands with manic anxiety. "She'd have hope only to have it ripped from her. It'll be just as it is now, hard to move past, because it is. For Merlin's sake, Fred, we were tortured."

George stopped suddenly, locking his gaze with his brother. George's blue eyes were as hard as steel, frozen dead with pain, as unwanted memories flooding forward in a grey blanket. It made Fred's blood go cold and suddenly he was very afraid of what George would say next. "I sat in the cell and listened to her screams above my head. I saw that fat bloody bastard drag her up the stairs. I felt the vibrations on the ceiling as they brought her to the brink of death and all I could do was sit there. I had to be dead with apathy, praying that my indifference would lesson her torture. I did as she asked. I sat there, I showed them nothing, but it was everything, Freddie."

Fred sat in a stilled shock as he watched George collapse back into his previous seat. Tears were stinging to be freed from behind Fred's eyes as he watched George quickly wipe away the stray drops off his cheek. The silence echoed with George pain and it felt very much like a punch to the gut. Fred never expected this, not such a powerful explosion, but Fred still knew he was right. He still knew that precautions were necessary.

"Time may help," Fred began slowly, after he watched George's shoulders slump with the slightest calm. "And she may get better, but," Fred paused, waiting to gauge if George would have another explosion. "George, if there's any trace of lingering dark magic, it'll only intensify as time passes. We need to take the precautions and ensure that she won't get worse. That she won't get stuck in what happened, unable to get pulled out. Do you understand me, George?"

A weak nod was Fred's response and he took it as his cue to continue. "George, if Hermione has any traces of the cruciatus curse left in her, it could keep her, at least in her mind, in Malfoy manor." The burden of Fred's words seemed to sink George's shoulders in even more. Fred knew that George was finally grasping reason, at least slightly.

"Okay," George said, clearing his throat, before continuing. "Okay, Freddie, but, not now. Give it a bit of time. Just wait until after Bill looks at her wound. One thing at a time."

"After Bill?" Fred asked softly, knowing Bill was to arrive that afternoon, "Alright. We'll wait until tomorrow then." Fred watched with sad eyes as George rose from his seat and walked out the door towards the infirmary without another word. As the door to shut behind his twin, Fred finally let his strength wane.

He slumped forward; pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, rubbing the images that raced through is head away. When he looked up again to the empty room, twinkles lined his vision, but Fred did not care. Leaning his elbows on his knees, Fred rested his chin on his palms, knowing the medical potion he had been perfecting was near completion. The purple concoction, which bubbled downstairs on his infirmary desk, was almost done. Another six hours of simmering before bottling, and then it would be ready for administration. Fred had hoped to begin treatment tonight, but it would just have to wait until tomorrow, then he could really begin to heal Hermione Granger.

* * *

An out of body experience. That was what George Weasley attributed his actions to. With every fibre, he knew Fred was right, and yet, for the life of him George could not understand why he did not just agree with the evidence. Hermione's mental stability was hanging in the balance and all he could do was argue on whether she needed false hope. Merlin, he was a selfish prat. At least he felt like one.

It was as if he was watching from above. George floated in a dazed wonder, while, he, himself, acted on pretences that George hardly even believed. The stairways in Kingsley's Castle seemed to give him a form of clarity that finally brought him back to sense. With a clear mind, George realized it all. Fred was a brilliant wizard and George trusted his judgement without hesitation. Then why in Merlin's name was he fighting so hard? If Fred thought the scan should be done, then after Bill examined Hermione's side, George would not wait any longer.

His pace quickened as he reached descended the last flight of stairs knowing that Hermione would be waiting for him in the infirmary. The two had taken to sleeping in the infirmary until Hermione's wound was inspected. Thankfully, since Hermione's nightmare no one said anything against the decision. It was hardly arguable after that night, not to mention they were closes to all the medical supplies needed to keep the area clean, making it an airtight argument. It was uncomfortable, cold and very noisy, but, despite the cramped bed in the draft, George was not bothered one bit by the arrangement.

Each night he slept with Hermione pressed close to him. The cold air did not faze him with her warm body wrapped in his embrace. The noises coming from about the castle did not unravel him as long as it was not her fearful screams. And, though he still woke to inspect the dark before settling, her breath against his chest brought him back to the present each time, and that was a bliss he had never known before.

Pushing past the large oak doors he nearly sprinted to their shared bed where Hermione sat against the pillows, flipping through the pages of one of Fred's texts. The shorts she wore left most of her legs bare. His old long sleeve quidditch shirt was loose on her frame, causing her to roll the sleeves to her elbows. Her chestnut curls were tied up in a loose bun, a few strands escaping to fall before her face. Drawn between her teeth in concentration was her rose coloured, bottom lip as she read the dusky tomb. Her nose wrinkled slightly as she turned the page, a puff of dust blowing upward into the air. She was breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking.

Quietly, George settled on the bed, waiting patiently for her to finish the last words of the chapter. Her legs were outstretched, rested on his lap, as she leaned against the headboard of the metal frame bed. He ran his fingertips up and down the length of her calf gently, watching in fascination as her skin became prickled with goose bumps. Instantly, he felt the serenity he needed. The peace only her presence brought him. With both calm and clarity now seeping into his being, George knew now he was right in his decision.

The condition he had given to Fred was still wise. They had to take one thing at a time. The scan was necessary, George agreed, but so was patience. It would just become far too overwhelming for Hermione if they threw it to her all at once. That was the last thing George wanted.

"George," a soft flutter danced to the forefront, "did you hear me?"

"Hmm," he hummed, his fingers continuing tracing the path on her leg, "Sorry, love. What did you say?"

"I was just wondering if you were ready for lunch," Hermione repeated, closing the oversized book and gingerly placing it on the bedside table. "Ginny was here earlier and said your mum was making tomato soup and bacon sandwiches. Are you hungry?"

"Always am," he said with a wink, as they shifted so she could snuggled into the crook of his arm. George's arm immediately wrapped around Hermione's shoulders, as she laid her head on his chest, her arm slung across his middle. The soft chuckle, which escaped her lips, was a welcomed sound. "Not just yet though, hunger or not, I'd rather stay here for a few."

"Kay," her reply was wispy, filled with an at ease mirth. It allowed George to forget just for a moment that there was no war raging outside the castle walls. That in the isolation of her branding touch, Hermione and he existed in a place far from radical genocide. Far from the madness which evil created. Far from the chaos and torture of war. She had become his rock, his sanity. Merlin, she was everything to him now. Hermione Granger, with the chestnut curls and fiery amber eyes. Hermione, the smart and witty witch who showered him in an emotion more powerful than anything he had ever experienced. Hermione who never stopped to amaze him. She gave George Weasley freedom, and as he held her tight, he realized that freedom made him feel like he could achieve absolutely anything.

* * *

Once again Hermione found herself seated at the table within Kingsley's castle. A nice family meal with the Weasleys had become, surprisingly, a comfort in the last week. Large gatherings of people still made her slightly uneasy, though this time, the presence of her adopted family seemed to sooth any fearful sting.

Molly Weasley, the matriarch, was busy stirring the pot of tomato soup, while her husband Arthur, the patriarch, sat at the head of the table, sipping his afternoon tea. The looks she had received on her first meal back, pity and disbelief, seemed to meld into one of adoration and love. She still saw the lingering sadness in Molly's face, but it was hardly as unnerving as it had once been. Ginny, her best friend, who always sat by Hermione's side during meals, brought a strange type of relief with her, embellishing the gathering. It was warm and filled with love, reminding Hermione just how much goodness still remained.

Then there was Fred Weasley. His console and caring was one of its own. The long intrigued stares Fred casted at Hermione was slightly rattling, but it was not filled with pity or even sadness, which Hermione was thankful for. No, Fred's eyes were laced with a clinical examination, as if he was studying her every movement. As for what he was looking, she was not sure, but Hermione assumed it was related to the very intricate potion Fred was brewing in the infirmary.

The potion was fascinating to Hermione. She scoured all of Fred's medical texts, trying to find any sort of clue as to what he could be doing in that cauldron, but found nothing remotely close. Hermione could only assume it was his own invention, one filled with ground snake fangs, lavender, sage and aloe. The sweet smell seemed to follow her throughout the castle, even down here, immersed in the smell of roasted pepper and tomato soup, the aroma clung to the air.

It was quite soothing actually. Maybe it worked as an airborne vapour. Whatever it was, Fred seemed to be in a constant healer state of mind, and, as Fred's bright blue eyes watched Hermione, she felt a little like a distrusted mental patient. It was quite the opposite of how George looked at her.

 _George_ , her mind swooned at the thought of him. Merlin, she was definitely in deep now. If there was any lingering doubt that her infatuation with George was based on joint capture, it was definitely abolished. She was completely mad about him. George and she seemed to be connected by some sort of unmovable force, tethered by an invisible steel cable. The magic they shared was blissful. An intense nirvana.

 _You think you're safe, Mud blood?_  A familiar whisper echoed. Her mind was drifting again, back to the memories that haunted her. She could see the light stone floor morphing into the dark hardwood she feared. The bright sun from the kitchen window began to spin into falling shadows. It was all pulling her to the dark she evaded, pulling her back to capture, but as if on instinct, warmth slung over her shoulders.

Glancing to her left, she melted in George Weasley's ice blue eyes. His fiery hair was unruly, standing in multiple directions. It was much shorter since they returned to safety, a pleasant change she could get used to. His red beard was also gone, clean-shaven, though his midday stumble was burning through his skin, accenting his strong jaw. He was far too alluring. The way he looked at her with such adoration, with such passion, it brought her back. Each time her terrors, both night and day, came barrelling through, George was there, drawing her to a welcomed warmth. Any time her mind slipped in the slightest, George was there, winning the battle between light and dark. He was her rock, he was her sanity, and as he smiled down at her, she felt maybe she was his too.

"How much soup would you like dear?" Molly asked, ladling a large helping into George's bowl as she addressed Hermione. Her eyebrow was quirked upward in question, probably waiting to see if Hermione would actually speak to anyone other than George. Hermione tensed slightly, unsure on how to approach the answer. Though their presence had been comforting, Hermione had yet to speak to anyone, other than George, not since her nightmare. They would speak, and she was just sit there, unsure, like she was now.

"Just a little bit mum," George answered for her, sensing her discomfort.

"Alright, dear," Molly's voice was laced with pride, despite Hermione's lack of response, and Hermione knew why. George was definitely a son to be proud of. He was strong willed, determined, and devoted. He was caring and brave. He was smart and completely committed to standing by Hermione's side through this adjustment, and any mother would be proud to call this man her son. "Eat up, before it gets cold."

 _That was odd_ , Hermione thought, noticing the flash of Molly's eyes as they lingered on her. Could it be? Was that a look of pride? Was Molly proud of her as well? But, Hermione hardly understood why any form of pride would be directed at her. What had she accomplished? She had gotten captured, she had been tortured, she had been rescued by George Weasley, and what's worse, she refused to speak to anyone other than George since returning home. These were hardly elements to be proud of.

Gingerly, Hermione raised a spoonful of soup to her lips, relishing in the warmth it filled her with. George's arm tightened around Hermione's shoulders, his fingers running up and down the length of her arm, as it always did when they ate. The reassurance this simple action brought allowed her to focus on the taste instead of continuing down the self-loathing train of thought. She savoured the flavour of sweet tomato and fire roasted bell peppers, finishing her bowl quickly, and moving on to her sandwich. She was in the process of taking a bite when a green glow filled the kitchen.

The rushing sound of a floo entrance pulled her back to her surroundings. Glancing back, she watched as Bill Weasley emerged from the fireplace, wiping the dusk off his pants, and taking a seat next to Fred at the table.

"Hey mum, dad," he said while Molly fixed him a plate of food.

"How are you, Bill, dear?" Molly asked as she floated the large helping towards her son, the plate teetering with several sandwiches and a bowl of soup.

"Just fine," Bill nodded in greeting toward everyone at the table, a warm smile spreading across his lips, taking away from the long scars that marred his face. "There was an arrival at the cottage," he swallowed his bite of sandwich before continuing, "They will be arriving here."

"An arrival?" Hermione's voice rang through the kitchen, clear as a bell, before she could even stop herself. The surprised looks on everyone's faces should have stunned her as well, but she was fixated on Bill's comment. Bill nodded and Hermione broke her gaze, staring down into her lap.

An arrival? Shell cottage was only a transition point to Harry, Ron and she as they hunted for horocruxes. The order wanted an untainted landing zone, one not constantly used to ensure secrecy. Hermione sat still, sandwich untouched expect for one bite, unsure what this arrival could mean. Had the two collected all the pieces of Voldemort's soul? Had they been injured horribly after Hermione sacrificed herself for them? Had they come to take her away back to the mission?

Hermione gulped, eyes wide, before glancing to George who had stood from his seat. She could not go back out there, not with her escaped prisoner status. She could not put Harry and Ron in more danger despite how hunted they already were. She was not ready for the isolation and fear of the mission, not yet, and she was not ashamed to say it. Meeting George's eyes, she realized that maybe she was far more damaged than she thought.

"Mum," George said, holding a hand out to Hermione and pulling her up. "We are going upstairs to the infirmary." Looking around the room, Hermione realized that both Bill and Fred had already left and she suddenly felt very nervous. Bill's presence was more than just news.

Her hand instinctively clutched her ribcage protectively. Her wound. Bill was here to inspect, and hopefully mend, her wound. Every morning, Fred helped replace the bandage on her still unhealed wound, something Hermione had gotten used to. George helped change the bandage at night. Those two pairs of eyes were the only ones regularly privy to the jagged bloody words carved in her flesh. Feeling the skin stretch on her side as she reached for the railing, Hermione shivered as she quickly kept pace with George up the stairway.

The pain was starting to blend with her, each movement she made creating a new form of strain on the wound, and Hermione was worried. There were no signs of improvement. Not one. No scab, no clot, nothing but fresh blood resting at the surface. Blood replenishing potions had become a daily requirement just to ensure that she would not bleed out. Though, Hermione was anxious about another person inspecting it, she was more afraid of Bill being unable to mend the tore flesh.

As George and Hermione neared the infirmary, she felt a bubbling fear settle in her stomach. Her eyes met George's once more, letting the calm pools wash over her with support. George trusted his brothers, and if George had faith, then Merlin so did she. With a shaky hand, she reached for him, smiling shyly as their fingers intertwined. A silent promise of unity. Together they pushed through the infirmary doors. Together they walked, hand in hand, to where Bill and Fred had already settled. Together they sat on the bed, George's arm taking its place around her shoulders. As long as Hermione was next to him, she knew that they could overcome any obstacle. This check up was just the first of many hill to climb.

"Alright," Bill started, a casual smile gracing his lips. "Let's get to it, shall we?"

"Love," George turned to Hermione, his reassuring gaze turning the boil in her stomach into a gentle simmer. "Bill has to look at your side now, okay?" Hermione nodded, reaching for George's left hand and gripping it tightly. The fingers on his right hand proceeded to roll up the right side of the Ireland quidditch shirt she wore, holding up the fabric so Bill could remove the bandage.

Hermione shut her eyes when the laceration was exposed to the cool air, the jagged letters visible. She heard the deep breath that Bill took through his nose as he examined the wound. She heard Fred roll a table of supplies over, the clattering of metal instruments echoing through the hall. Instead she focused on the beating of George's heart as she pressed closer to his chest, trying to hide from the moment.

"How long has this been here?" Bill said, his voice devoid of emotion, as he flipped through the notes Fred had taken on the injury.

"I don't know," Hermione barely whispered, and in truth she did not. She was unconscious for a long time towards the end of her capture that time seemed to blur, at least for her. George on the other hand, answered clearly right after her.

"Almost four weeks," Hermione felt her heart sink. Four weeks? A month? She has been walking with this evil reminder for a month. No. No, that could not be.

"Four weeks and no scabbing?" Bill turned to Fred, "Were there any other attempts to heal it, any other potions, besides what you listed here?"

"No, but by the discolouration it's pretty evident which potion is needed." Fred replied, his voice filled with sympathy as opposed to Bill's stoic tone.  _Fred really was meant to be a healer_ , Hermione thought.

"Hermione," Bill began again, drawing her attention. She looked over to him nervously, afraid of what more information they needed. "I know you probably don't want to remember this, but," Bill paused, as if gauging whether to continue, but at Hermione's nod, he pressed on. "What did the use. A knife or a wand?" Hermione somehow knew that this would come up. A tear slid down her cheek and she turned her head into George's shoulder, mumbling her reply. George immediately tensed, rage coursing through him as he finally realized who had caused this devastating wound. It was obvious no one other than George had heard her, as she met the curious gazes of both Bill and Fred before looking down.

Bill looked on, waiting patiently for an answer. George's jaw cracked as he clenched his teeth.

"Claws." More tears began to drip down Hermione's face, dripping off her chin in a slow stream. There was no shock in Bill's face. He had seen these wounds before, Hermione knew that. Fred on the other hand, his eyes blazed, much like George's, with a silent rage.

"Fenrir." Bill stated knowingly, before rummaging through his bag, pulling out a small vile. The light twinkled off the silver liquid, one Hermione knew was Wolfsbane. With an eyedropper, Bill prepared a few drops of the potion, his hand steady over Hermione's side. "This may sting for a moment," he said before pressed down on the rubber plunger, dropping two drops of Wolfsbane on the bloody 'M'.

It stung. Quite a lot actually, but it quickly turned into nothing. There was no pain anymore, not even when she took a deep breath and the skin stretched. Immediately, the wizards and witch, watched as the wound begun to scab. With another drop, it had closed, healing into a silver white scar, much like the scars marring Bill's face and neck. With sad eyes, Bill continued his work on the rest of the word, the letters healing into matching scars spelling out clearly  _Mud blood_. When he finished, he repacked the potion and pulled out a small jar of white cream, placing it on Hermione's lap.

"What is it?" She asked gently, finding her voice again. Bill's sadness was mirrored in Hermione. Knowing that she would bear this scar for the rest of her days caused a weighted defeat to settle on her shoulders.

"Aloe and ground winter's breath," Bill said, "My own creation. It may help reduce the brightness of the scar, but I will be honest, this," gesturing to his face, Bill continued, "will never fade entirely." Hermione could only nod as she lowered her shirt, feeling George's arm tighten around her shoulders as she moved a little closer into his embrace. Merlin, how glad she was to have his support right now. "It's good to have you back, Hermione. This, it'll only make you stronger. It's a badge of honour. You may get cravings for red meat, but don't let it set you back."

It was the good-natured honesty of Bill's words that caused her to chuckle into George's chest. The sound was almost foreign to her in this situation, but Hermione found she was relieved. Relieved that she could even laugh in here, after this tremendous feat.

 _I will never forget your smell, kitten,_  that dreadful hiss bombarded her thoughts once more, causing Hermione to crash from the high she was on. Glancing over she saw a shadow take shape in the corner, a sharp tooth sneer gleaming in the dark, lighting up the face of Fenrir Greyback. She nearly screamed as she shut her eyes.

"Thanks for your help Bill," Fred's voice cut through her terror.  _Fenrir is right there,_  she thought, her voice lost on her once more, but Fred was carefree in his speech. Not even a suggestion that evil could be lurking. How could he be so calm about this? "Couldn't have done it without you, wolfsbane is very rare now, with all the attacks happening."

Opening her eyes slowly, first one, then the other Hermione glanced around the infirmary. Taking in the sight of Fred shaking Bill's hand. George still sat beside her, his eyes burned ice cold with an anger as he attempted to reign in his rage, remaining a calm support. Most importantly, Hermione saw Fenrir's disappearance, which baffled her. Was he not just there? Standing by the potions table, his teeth curled in a venomous sneer. Hermione felt like she may have lost her mind.

"Right, so," Bill stood, pulling his bag off the ground and slinging it over his shoulder. "There is more." Hermione looked up, Bill standing over the bed right before her, holding out a charmed letter to her. The familiar scrawl made Hermione's blood blaze with excitement and anxiety. "The arrivals will be needing some assistance with mission, Hermione, I know you're familiar with it."

"No," George's voice burst through the air, his anger building and lacing his words with a shaky fear. Hermione felt as if the earth fell from under her. She was falling, knowing exactly what these arrivals would need from her. "She is not going with them again, Bill."

"George," There was a tremor in her speech, but she hid it with determination, halting George's rage. "Bill, please continue."

"They gave me this to give you," Holding out the letter once more to Hermione, she finally grabbed it from his outstretched hand. The folded piece of paper weighed heavily in her palms and Hermione could not stop the trembles in her fingers. Her mind was clouded with emotion. They needed her to leave again, that's why Ron and Harry were coming back. They needed her to give them everything. Hermione was sure she may be going crazy, she was convinced Fred thought so at least, was that really best for Harry and Ron? A crazy person who sees delusions of the past? A person who could not even admit to herself that she was teetering on the edge and seeing things? That would just put everyone in danger.

"When should we expect them?" George asked, taking over for Hermione, his strength seeping into her skin. Could she really leave George behind?

"By eight tonight." Hermione could not hear anymore. A loud rush passed her eyes, blocking all coherent sound. They needed her. Harry and Ron needed her. They needed her to give them everything. They needed her to give them the little bit of strength and sanity she had left, but if she went back out there, if she left again on that mission, Hermione was certain that none of them would come back alive.


	18. Admissions

  
**Love and War Chapter 17  
** **Admissions**   


* * *

In an instance, life can be altered beyond recognition. A quick blink and the fabric of reality can be forever shredded. All that is tangible and cherished can be changed, morphed, into the frightful unknown. For Hermione Granger, the world changed with one pivotal weapon: a crumpled envelope.

With the flashing of green light and the smell of burnt floo powder, Bill Weasley had left the infirmary, leaving with Hermione a glimpse into the future. Suddenly, life had once again, become centred on the war as she gripped the unopened letter with shaky hands. The words staining the parchment stood out, her name spelt in the familiar shaky scribbling of her best friend, Harry Potter, and Hermione released the breath that she held.

Her finger traced the rushed letters, both cherishing and cursing its importance, while her foot tapped against the stone of the infirmary ward in anxiety. This concealed her fate. Her life hung in the balance with the contents of this piece of correspondence, and though the paper seemed innocent, Hermione knew the danger, which lurked in the ink.

Glancing up at the clock on Fred's work desk, Hermione realized how much time had lapsed. For three hours, she had sat staring at this unopened mail. For three hours, she had avoided her destiny. For three hours, she had sat, alone, contemplating what unknown lingered. Was she doomed to die in this war? Was she doomed to watch her friends die? Hermione hoped that she was not meant to live through this horror alone. Alone like she was now, sitting on her infirmary bed, clutching at some parchment.

George had left her with some privacy to mull over Harry's instructions, but Hermione assumed he had really left to clear his own mind. Anger still coursed through him at the thought of her leaving again, an anger, which was mirrored by confusion in Hermione. She was actually thankful that he had let her have a few moments to pounder what all this meant. His support lingered though, urging her to face the fears, which swirled through her mind, the real fears, the ones beyond a silly letter.

Her wound was sealed in a permanent scar, stark white against her skin, becoming a mark that was hardly avoidable. It was a constant reminder that to some, she was an abomination. A vile creature not deserving of life. A sub-being not worthy of happiness or love. This reminder was with her for the rest of her days now, and though she rarely marched with her side so exposed, Hermione knew it was there for everyone to see. George knew it was there.

Moreover, what of George? Was his fate sealed in the words as well? Hermione's eyes widened with fear as she pictured George, dead at her feet. The bloody claws of Fenrir shining brightly in the dark. Bellatrix's cackling laughs echoing through the cloud. What if he was to die before she told him how much she truly cherished him?

Glancing down at the white parchment, she sunk into her confusion. She knew she should open it, but Hermione's fingers failed her. Locked in fear, the letter remained in her grip, its contents a feared mystery as thoughts of hesitation filled her. Her hesitation to play a role unfit for her. The ever-devoted sidekick, giving life, limb and sanity to aid the chosen one was not who she was anymore. Her hesitation to admit when she was truly wounded and needed help. Hermione was damaged, fearful of her own abilities, fearful of the delusions she refused to admit were present. Her hesitation to act. Hermione was losing her mind with the emotions she did not voice, the love she did not voice.

 _Merlin,_ Hermione's eyes were like saucers as the truth registered. Hermione was just not mad for George Weasley; she was completely in love with him. Not just puppy love either, the real, deep and dark kind of love people sacrifice their souls for.

Well, that was indeed something entirely different.

Chewing at her bottom lip, she processed this development. George Weasley, the man who saved her life, literally and metaphorically, was the man she was truly in love with. Merlin, if this letter really was sentencing her to her death, was she really willing to die without George not knowing how she felt. No. No, she was not.

Hermione stood, clenching her fists, the parchment rumpling in her fingers. This was it. She would put an end to this hesitation once and for all. Her mind was a minefield of instability she had to admit that to herself.

"I am seeing things," she finally whispered out loud, "I am seeing things which are not real but feel like it." She said a little louder, strength filling her voice as she marched towards the infirmary door, her mind clear with direction though her eyes stung with unshed tears. "I am seeing things and need help." Pulling the door open she walked in a steady pace, summoning her courage to speak these words to someone other than herself. Up the stairs, she climbed, one foot after another, before finally halting at the doors of Kingsley's overstocked library. Pausing, she placed her fingers on the ornate handle, admitting to herself the last important piece of truth. "I am in love with George Weasley."

* * *

The fury, which radiated through the air was blinding. A red haze seemed to settle over George Weasley's vision, clouding his mind in a rage unlike any other. He paced in the boil, the steady movement keeping him from going on a deatheater-killing spree, as he muttered to himself. This was the sight, which Fred Weasley walked in on.

"Must be serious?" There was a soft cheer to Fred's voice, which immediately sliced through George's patience. He turned towards the entrance, fists clenched, eyes ablaze, but before he could take off on his hunt, Fred spoke again. "You're in a library George, whatever it is, must be serious."

"You were there," George said, slightly deflated.

"Ah, that."

"I'm going to personally kill Fenrir." George promised, his tone devoid from any tremors. He had been muttering this vow as he paced. He had made this vow when Hermione finally revealed who sliced into her flesh. That evil excuse for a werewolf had dug his claws into  _his_ Hermione. That bastard had run his filthy paws down her naked side, pushing himself on top of her. That vile creature was not going to get away with any of it.

"I'm sure there is something beyond that," George felt his legs wobble under Fred's perceptive gaze. George was deflecting, but that still did not discredit his anger. Fenrir would be dealt with. "What's chewing at your ankles, Georgie?"

"Another mission," George blurted, before his weight finally became too much, and he collapsed into the armchair behind him. Fred understood instantly, the linkage allowing for the most minimal amount of communication necessary. Hermione was leaving again.

"That's not bloody happening," Fred scoffed in a mirrored anger, settling on the arm of the plush black chair.

"Another fucking mission, Fred." Resting his elbows on his knees, George slumped, his head falling forward into his hands in defeat.

"Georgie," Fred rubbed George's back soothingly, desperately trying to calm his twin, as he struggled to reign in his own anger. "Listen, she can say no, but more importantly, I can say no. She won't go until she clears her scan, I promise you that. As her healer, I've at least got a say in it." As reassuring as Fred was, George could hardly concentrate on his brother's words. He buried his face into his palms, his fingers circling against his temples as he fumed.

This was impossible. The chosen one and his dim-witted younger brother could not just barge back home and risk the life of  _his_  brilliant witch. Not when she could hardly be around large groups. This could not, in any way, shape or form, be beneficial to the war effort. Hermione was a warrior. A brilliant one. And of course, she was intelligent, so much so that George was sure in this state, she would definitely be a valuable weapon against evil. But she was not ready for this. Not the same mission that had gotten her captured.

George was not okay with this. Not when he knew, her safety hung in the balance. Her life hung in the balance. Resting his chin on his hands, he gazed at the black door of the library. If she died because of those foolish boys, he would never forgive either of them, family or not.

With a sigh, George glanced over to his brother, looking towards the steady support that refused to leave his side.

"Freddie," George cleared his throat, "Thank you. For everything." Fred only nodded, before both twins lapsed into silence once more.

It did not last long.

Only a moment later, the library door bashed against the wall as it swung open. Hermione, the very woman that George's sanity rested on, marched over toward them, determination masked her face. Taking in the tears, which dripped down her cheeks, George immediately rose to his feet. Fred, who had fallen off the armchair in her entrance, was struggling to do the same from the floor.

"Love," George began, only to be hushed, Hermione's frantic breaths coming out in between soft sobs. He was unsure as to what could have caused her such distress. She rushed across the room, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face into his chest.

"George," she gulped, her voice coming out in choppy words, "I don't want to go. I can't go."

"Shh, love," George whispered as he stood dumbfounded. He held her close, his chin resting on the top of her head, "You aren't going anywhere. Is that was it said?"

"I can't go," She repeated firmly before breaking from his hold with a shove. He stood stunned, watching her back away. Hermione was backing away from him. He felt his heart sinking, breaking as her eyes stared into his him with a widened fear. "If I don't do this now, I never will." To say George was confused was an understatement. He was baffled, completely bewildered. Hermione never pushed him away like that before. Did he do something wrong? "I am seeing things." She spoke clearly, and George's mental tirade halted instantly.

"Seeing things?" Fred piped up, his voice stern, but urging Hermione on. She nodded, and held up her hand, silently asking for no interruption.

"I am seeing things that are not real, but feel like that are." She said, her voice growing in strength. "I am seeing things and need help." George swallowed the thickness of the moment, knowing that Fred had been completely right all along. Poison was coursing through her veins, and they had to stop it. They had to stop it now. "I need help, and I need you, George. I need you." George's eyebrows shot up. He knew Hermione was connected to him now. He knew how he felt about her and he knew she relished in his support and comfort, but needed him. She needed him? "I am in love with George Weasley."

His breath sailed out of his lungs in that moment. It felt like a punch in the gut, but in the best possibly way. She loved him. Merlin, he was floating above happiness now. George was living in ecstasy. Hermione Granger, the love of his bloody life, loved him too. It was not just the capture for her. All this was real. The deep kind of love people sacrifice their souls for. Dark and Scary, but most importantly, real.

Instantly, he moved to her. In two steps, George cleared the distance, Hermione's determination now in his eyes as well, blending with lust, want and love. His arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her against his chest, while his other cupped her cheek. His thumb traced along the soft flesh as George gazed down at her.

Her smile was radiant, blissful like the joy she brought him. Her hair was wild, trying to break free from the loose bun, mimicking her passion. Her molten amber eyes melted the ice of his own, shining with the love she finally expressed. She was everything, absolutely everything, and she was in love with him.

Hermione leaned up on her toes, her arms rising to rest around his neck. His hand moved to get lost in her hair, pulling it out of its confines, while her fingers played with the fiery strands on his neck. It was then he swooped down, pressing his lips to hers gently, feeling her breath sweet against his. The kiss was sweet and epic. It was what he longed for all this time and when he heard Hermione's soft moan, and he knew she waited just as long.

"'Mione," he hummed, relishing in her flavour. Butter beer and peppermint. George was convinced there was nothing sweeter. "I love you, too, 'Mione." George said against her lips as they curved upward. His soft tongue traced the tender flesh of her bottom lip, begging to deepen the passion, and he felt Hermione's nails gently scratch at his neck. Her lips parted, her tongue meeting his, stroke for stroke, in a battle that mimicked the war. This war, however, was not one of hate. This was a fight for dominance, for passion, for love, and when he felt Hermione's teeth graze his bottom lip, claiming it as her own before soothing it with her tongue, he smiled into her victory.

"Don't know how long I waited for that, love," George whispered as he pulled back from the fires of her passion. His forehead rested against hers, feeling her deep breaths against him, urging him to resume where he had left off.

"You two are both bloody mental," George heard Fred's laughter from behind them, and instantly, they pulled back a little further. A soft blush tinged at Hermione's cheeks, as she ducked her head with a slight embarrassment, while George wrapped his arm around her shoulders, securing her into his side.

Fred had settled into an armchair, already reading a large medical text. He was smiling to himself slightly, obviously not keen in watching his brother snog a witch, but still completely happy for the two. This allowed the sly smile on George's face to morph into an easy grin. A calm silence filled the library, as the three settled into the seating area in the middle of the room. Hermione was nestled closer into George's chest, her lips, reddened and slightly raw, were in a tight wistful smile, while George's fingers traced a familiar route up and down the length of her back. It was at this moment that the sound of a rushing floo could be heard down in the common area of Kingsley's Castle. The arrivals finally arrived.

"I didn't read it," Hermione said softly. Fred had risen from his seat, the large text, snug in the crook of his arm, while George had remained seated with his love, but both gave Hermione the same curious look. One brow raised in question, eyes trained, waiting for her answer. "The letter," she continued, "I was too frightened of all I said earlier, much more so than the letter, that it took precedent. I have no idea what it says." She gestured to the forgotten parchment, crumpled on the floor at Fred's feet.

"It doesn't matter what it said," George said, placing his finger under her chin, urging her eyes met his. "You're not going anywhere."

"Hermione," Fred pulled their focus once more. "George is right; you're not going on any mission. I don't clear you for it." He said with a wink, before walking out of the library to greet their fellow order members. Fred's laughter followed him out the door and suddenly there was a slight change in the air.

"It's time love," Hermione tensed in anticipation and terror, causing George's grasp on her to grow more firm. With a nod, both of them stood, their fingers laced in a show of unity. This was it. It was time to say no to the golden boys of the war. Their last stand, but glancing at Hermione, George smiled. He leaned down, lingering in the tender kiss he gave her, assuring her of his support. Their eyes met as he pulled back, and George knew, that no matter what awaited them, Hermione and he were in this together.

* * *

_**Please review!** _


	19. The Arrivals

Love and War Chapter 18  
The Arrivals

* * *

                Never had air been so thick before.  The minutes ticked by on a large, oak made, grandfather clock, while the sitting room at Kingsley's castle basked in the intensity of this moment.  Four pairs of eyes glanced around the room, four cups of tea sat untouched on various end tables, four different rates of breath kept time.  Though the ticking overpowered the pregnant silence, Fred Weasley thought he had gone deaf just from the sheer awkwardness of it all.

                Looking up across the room, Fred eyed the swinging kitchen door.  He suddenly wished that his brother sat in his stead.  George, with his fiery emotions, would know how to deflate the massive elephant.  Anger would surge through the delicate situation, pulling the shards of broken discomfort away, forming this moment into something completely different.  Sure, it would end in a rage filled catastrophe, but at least it would be done and over with quickly.  With a heavy sigh, Fred turned his head to the right, meeting Hermione Granger's gaze.  No, despite how senselessly George would blow through this sensitive moment, Fred knew that route would not aid those involved.

                Clearing his throat, he watched as the attention was shifted onto him.  Hermione, smiled with encouragement, while his younger brother, Ron Weasley fumed at his presence.  Obviously, Ron was still reeling from the affection Hermione bestowed on George when the boys first arrived.  Fred was certain his younger brother's ears were steaming when George had wrapped a protective arm around Hermione's shoulders.  Moreover, when Hermione had skirted away from Ron's embrace to bury into George's chest, Fred saw the sting settle on Ron's heart.  His mind was probably imploding, and it was only going to get worse.  Then there was Harry Potter.

                The chosen one.  The order's golden token, patiently waiting for whatever stood in his way to present itself.  Fred gulped down the nerves.  Right in this moment, Fred was a roadblock.  All he could do was hope against hope that the powerful wizard before him would not cast him as a traitor.  There was no hint of that however, not in Harry's eyes.  Bright green, curious orbs just watched intently.

                "Right," Fred started, aware of the croak in his words, "let's just jump into this.  Easing into this would just drag this out."

                "Fred," Harry interjected hesitantly, "Not that I don't mind you being here, but why are you, y'know, here?"

                "Harry," Hermione's voice was soft, unsure, as she spoke.  Fred was a little shocked at hearing her form words at all to be honest.  She had hardly said a word since Ron and Harry arrived.  This courage was a tremendous feat in her recovery.  "Fred has to be here."  There was finality in what she said, leaving no room for an argument, and through it was unnecessary, Harry nodded in approval.

                "Right," Fred began once more, drawing the focus back.  "I should probably start by saying I have taken up the position of healer within the war.  I run the infirmary ward, and Harry, I'm sure you'd be pleased to know that, both Sirius and Remus, though injured on their latest mission, are perfectly healthy and without any permanent damage.  Sirius wishes to see you actually when he gets back."

                "That's brilliant," Harry nodded, a smile of gratitude lingering on his lips.  Ron, however, Fred noticed, was still as tense as ever.

                "As for Hermione here," He began, reluctant to divulge any information.  However, Hermione was the one who requested his presence during this 'information session' as she referred to it; Fred was unsure how fully he was allowed to break confidentiality with his patient.  He glanced to his right wishing to get some sort of signal, but Hermione was elsewhere.

                Withdrawn from the moment Hermione sat nervously, picking at the skin around her fingernails.  Her eyes were fixated on the swinging door George disappeared through earlier, and Fred could only sigh.  "She's hardly in the same state that you left her in and I think it best for her to remain hospitalized and monitored until further notice."

                "What is it you two need of me," Hermione said, her eyes still glued to the door across the room.

                "A researcher," Harry said, his gaze flickering back and forth between Hermione and Fred, trying to decipher what could possibly have happened.  Physically there was no trace of harm done, so then why did she need to remain hospitalized?  What happened to her?  These questions blanketed Harry's face while Ron's eyes remained fixated on his tea up, stoic in his intensity.  "You have always been good at that.  It's one thing to collect, uh, them, but without being able to destroy them, we can't move forward."

                "Hermione," Ron's voice was a sudden intrusion on the calm, which had settled slightly atop the young redhead's raging rapids, "You know books.  We need you."

                Fred saw the involuntary wince shutter through the witch next to him.  It was the same one that shook through her when she had first greeted Ron and Harry.  He mentally noted another potential trigger in his mind, hoping a flashback could be avoided until the scan was done. 

                From what he read, the deterioration as it makes its progress, allows for mental retrieval to be increasingly difficult.  Fred had been studying his patient since she finally came out about her weakening psychological state, noticing so many things he may have missed had he not been looking.  The way she had clung to George's arm as they descended the final flight of stairs to the main floor.  The way she had stiffened when Harry whispered inquiries about the letter.  The way she had gone nearly catatonic and whimpered as Ron's booming voice called her name.  Fred even categorised the way Hermione had instantly relaxed as George wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

                "I-I don't know," she spoke unsurely, her hands bunching the material of her napkin which rested in her lap.  "I have been through all the books I've got and came up short."

                "We just need a researcher," Harry pushed, and Hermione's fingers twisted the cloth further, her fingers locking their grip tighter while blood flushed the skin of her hands.

                "What does this job as a researcher entail," Fred started, "Research can be very strenuous on a person's mind.  Especially when they're already in such delicate state.  Would she have to leave again?"

                "Leave George you mean," Ron shot, his armchair shrieking as he stood abruptly while his voice grew in volume.  Ron was becoming blinded by jealousy.  Merlin, help them; this was not going to end well.  "She belongs with us.  She'd be coming with us."

                 "It would be ideal," Harry glanced at Fred, hoping to get approval, reason evident as he observed Hermione's detachment.  "But, maybe we can figure something else out as well.  You're in charge of the infirmary, so I respect your diagnosis, but it would definitely be ideal."

                "I don't—"Fred could not say more than that, his words dying on his lips as Ron furiously interrupted him once more.

                "Oh, for fuck's sake Fred, would you just leave," Ron was spitting out his words, emotion getting the better of him once again.  Fred turned to glance at Hermione once again, hoping she was able to remain present.

                "Shit," Fred whispered.  No such luck.  She was frozen, her knuckles white as she rung the napkin in her hand so tight, trying and failing to avoid her mind. _Another trigger_ , Fred thought, but just as he moved to take action, Ron burst forward with a sudden speed.

                "This is getting ridiculous," Snake light in quickness, Ron moved.  Fred began to rise, wishing his beater reflexes remained sharpened.  Again, no such luck.  Fred could not have stopped it if he tried, no matter how slow time seemed to move around him.  Reaching across the table, Ron's hand wrapped around Hermione's wrist, pulling her up to her feet.  "Hermione, lets' talk normally, upstairs."  Ron said, and Fred could only watch as the white cloth napkin fluttered to the ground, gracefully landing at Hermione's feet.        

* * *

 

                Suddenly time seemed to fast forward.  One moment Hermione sat next to Fred, hoping her mind would defog faster, and then the next moment she was in a cell.  The fat death eater she feared each day was reaching for her, two other enemies lingering behind him as blurred shadows.  All Hermione think was how terrified she was.  It all felt so real.  She felt everything.  The pain in her wrist as fat finger gripped her flesh tightly, bruises threatening to arise.  The soft material under her fingers, which grounded her to a certain reality, slipped into blackness and all she felt was the empty air.  The sudden point of hard wood tucked in the waistband of her pants pressed against the skin of her hip.

                _Merlin_ , she thought.  Her wand.  They left her with her wand.  But why?  Why would they ever be so careless?  She contemplated the idea of trickery, but then she heard it.

                "Let's talk upstairs, _Mudblood_."  She shuttered with fear, her whimper echoing against the concrete foundation of Malfoy Manor.  The voice that hissed sounded so sinister.  Snake like and venomous.  The darkness, which swirled around her, was blinding.  Pulling her further into the fear of the present, Hermione was clouded by the black.  She pitched forward as a sharp tug pulled on her wrist, the pain intensifying as the skin on her arm stretched slightly.  Hermione glanced up at this, confused as to how the fat capturer became so fit in only one blink of her lashes, and that is when she saw it clearly.

                The soft glint of light.  The twinkling of a green-tinted haze hovering at her peripherals may have been a sign of some sort of deception, but Hermione could only see the pearly white shine.  Fangs glimmering menacingly as lips curved upward in a sneer.  Greyback.  Hermione did not need to think twice about it now.  That sudden blunt point of hard wood tucked in the waistband of her pants.

                This was her defence and it was necessary.

                With a sharp yank, Hermione freed herself from the steel grip locked around her.  The cloud of black was twisting, but in her heart, she found her light.  The flash of ginger on her right gave her a sense of strength.  George.  Her fingers wrapped around the handle of her wand, drawing out her last fighting chance at any form of survival.  She was outnumbered; three wands to one, but that did not matter.  If she were to die, she would take, as many down with her, and that is when she said it.

                A shot of colour landed in the centre of Greyback's chest, propelling him backward with a loud crash.  Hermione smirked for a moment, ready to aim the next curse but there was no one there.  No other enemy.  Just Harry, standing before her and staring with a mix of worry and awe.

                "Harry?"  She said softly, unsure as to how she managed to escape so quickly from the dungeon.  Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Hermione jumped, before meeting Fred's gaze, and slowly Hermione lowered her wand.  "I don't understand."

                However, Fred was not looking her anymore.  No, he was looking across the sitting room, at the broken shelving unit, which held the expensive china.  Fred was staring at the crumpled head of a man at the foot of the ash cabinet, glass surrounding the green knit sweater and fiery red strands of Weasley ginger hair.  A soft serene look playing on the face of Ronald Weasley, one of her dearest of friends.

                "Where is Greyback?"  Hermione whispered, watching with shock as Harry moved towards the still body across the room.  Hermione glanced at her wand, then around her once more, before locking her gaze with Ron's peaceful face.  No.  No, Merlin, no.  What had she done?  "Ron," She whispered, before collapsing to her knees.  There at Fred's feet, her eyes trained on the unmoving form of her best friend, the tears began to flow.  "What did I do?"   

 


	20. Aftershock

  
**Love and War Chapter 19**   
****Aftershock** **

* * *

                George Weasley could not take it anymore.  This waiting game was getting to him.  It was gating and torturous.  All he could do was pace back and forth along the length of the kitchen table.  The food, which Molly had prepared him, was left untouched, along with a cup of calming tea, but George hardly cared.

                His entire being was consumed by the happenings in the next room.  It took all he had to wait in the kitchen while Fred and Hermione spoke to Ron and Harry about her capture.  Fred was the calm one in situations like this.  There was no way George would be able to remain that peaceful in there.  Even Hermione knew it.  It is why she had asked to do this without him.  Seeing as how displeased Ron was at their interaction, George could only nod.  And though George knew it was for the best, it did not ease his torment.

                "I should be there with her," he muttered as he paced back and forth.  George was half-tempted to use that extendable ear, but he promised Hermione he would not.  All he could wish for was that she was holding it together in there.

                There was the sound of Ron's bellowing coming from the other room, and George felt a knot grow in his stomach.  With clenched fists, he remained still though he itched to burst into the next room.  He had promised to stay out of this meeting, even if Ron were to shout.  Something that was inevitable.

                With fingers threaded through his hair, George collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs.  It had only been thirty minutes, but this meeting was taking too long.  Fred explained earlier how time affects the deterioration, and right now precious minutes were being wasted.  Hermione could be one-step closer to being healed.  One-step closer to reality.  Full reality.  But she was dealing with his dim-witted younger brother and the chosen one first.  For Merlin's sake, her health and safety had to come first.

                Then he heard it.

                The loud crash of glass and wood, vibrated on the wall separating the two rooms.  Two frames were crooked and the swinging door moved like a pendulum from the force of whatever had just hit that wall.  _Hermione,_ he thought before springing to action and pushed through the door only to stop dead in his tracks.

                Never before had a sight chilled him to the bone.  Hermione, his strong and caring Hermione was huddled in a ball at the feet of his twin brother.  Her eyes were dead, staring blankly, as she rocked back and forth in terror.

                "Love," George's eyes were glued to her as he moved swiftly across the room, crouching down next to her.  "Hermione?"  His hand stroked the skin on her cheek in comfort but George felt his heart break.  Her lips were moving, uttering silent words that no one could make out.  Her eyes, normally bright and full of fire, were dulled.  The ash, which swirled in her wide gaze, dead and unblinking, left George with a terror unlike no other.  "What fucking happened," George growled, the question directed to the room's other occupants though his focus was locked on Hermione.  His face was stone, iced over and hardened, as he watched the woman he loved dear in the aftermath of her extinguishing.

                "She cursed Ron," Fred said, his hand patting George's shoulder gently for a moment.  "Thought it was Greyback."

                "Thought it was Greyback," George whispered, his fingers still gently stroking Hermione's cheek.  "How is he?"

                "Knocked out," Harry said softly, the sound of glass crunching beneath boots amplifying the gentle tone.  "She hit him with a strong stupify."

                "That's it?"  George chuckled, before glancing back over his shoulder to take in the site.  "Ah," he whispered, "I guess she didn't realise which curse she actually said."

                "Lucky it wasn't something worse," Fred's own chuckling mimicked George's for a moment before both returned to their respective tasks.

                "I'm sorry, but can someone please explain what is bloody happening?"  The question danced in the air, Harry's words drifting to the unheard recesses of the room.  George was sure Harry was eying both of them down, simultaneously, but there were matters of greater importance.  He vaguely heard Fred offer a vague explanation before asking for assistance in waking Ron.  George also heard the soft chanting of healing spells, but it was all barely registered.  He did, however, clearly hear Fred's laughter.

                "What's this remind you of, huh?"  Fred asked the room, a wicked grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

                "D.A. practise," George and Harry said in tandem.  The humour of it all.  That was the one thing George knew Fred would always bring out.  The light, the laughter, the good-natured blessings of any situation, Fred Weasley was right there to point it all out.  And George could not be any more grateful for that in this moment.  He needed that joy, or how could he try to bring Hermione back this time.  His witch, his beautiful witch, was lost in her mind again.

                "Love," He whispered, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.  "Love, it's me," he felt her twitch and, urged by this, he kept on going.  His fingers tilted her head upward, rubbing gently the skin on her chin, until her eyes, though still unfocused, were meeting his.  "'Mione, love, come back to me."  But, still she stared.  Empty.  Broken.

                "Georgie," Fred said softly, almost defeated, "She has to be of sound mind for the scan.  I can't help her like this."  That was a kick in the gut.  George pressed his lips to her forehead, resting his chin on the top of her head for a moment.  With eyes shut and tears stinging at the closed lids, he breathed in her scent.  He needed some way to reach her.

                "Merlin," George heard from across the room, and was filled with a silent relief.  Ron was awake.  At least his brother was all right.  No matter how angry he was, George was glad he had not lost a brother.  "Hermione can hit hard."

                "Just couldn't control your temper, could you Ronnie," Fred taunted, while helping his younger brother into the armchair which Harry brought over.

                "Sod off, will you Fred."  Ron's words lingered around them in silence.  George remained in his crouch, his hand rubbing up and down the length of Hermione back as he held her.  What he would not do for her quick wit in this moment.  Her sarcasm always brought in the light.  And her intellect.  Merlin, she would know just how to reach the lost person with in the mind.  If it was him, she would not give up until she did.

                "Love," He would not give up either.  George pulled back to look at her face.  No, he would never give up.  "Can you hear me?"

                "Her-Hermione," Ron sputtered, but was immediately silenced by Harry's raised finger.

                "Hermione," Harry started, inching closer toward the broken witch who remained lost in George's arm.  "It's me.  It's Harry."

                Merlin, Harry had done something there.  Something sparked in her.  George was certain that something sparked in her.  He was not sure what, until words actually formed past her lips in a pained whisper.

                "I don't know where," her eyes were still wide, but no longer dead, and for that George was relieved.  It was a trigger.  A trigger that brought her back to the place she felt the most pain, and, though he never wished for her to return, he at least knew what to do about it from there.  This was horror he brought her back from every night.  "Please, I don't know where."

                "Hey," George said sternly, cupping her cheek, "Look at me, love.  Focus on me."

                "I don't know where," Hermione, continued her voice hoarse with guilt.

                "Fred, get whatever potions you need for the scan," With authority, George commanded this moment.  He pressed a kiss to her hand gently in a silent promise.  He would not give up.  Fred would be able to help her, and George would make sure of it.  "Harry, you and Ron don't move."  Harry nodded, but George was not looking.  No, his eyes were trained on hers.

                "George," Ron barked out only to be quickly hushed by Harry.

                "Hermione, it isn't real," the soothing voice in which George spoke was only reserved for her.  The stern authority devoid from his words, instead his love was channelled in hopes that it would act like a shot of adrenaline to the heart.  "Love, come back to me.  It's me, it's George.  Come on, look at me."

                It was then, the sweetest of things happened.  A fire, a real fire of passion filled her orbs.  Igniting the burnt coals into a soft smoulder.  Her eyes drifted upward, as if she was being pulled back to a place of pure bliss.

                "George?" she whispered, blinking a few times unsure as to where she was.

                "There you are," his thumb traced the soft skin of her cheek, brushing away the stray tear which rolled down; "I thought I lost you."

                "Please," she started hesitantly, "Don't let him touch me again."  Her request was so soft, he almost missed it, but he did not.  He knew who she was talking about.  Ron was not the problem here.  Greyback was.

                "Never," he promised, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before she collapsed into his chest with a heart-wrenching sob.

                "I'm so sorry," she muttered the chanted apology over and over into the fabric of his shirt, her hands balling the material in her fingers.  "I didn't mean to."

                "Shh, it's ok," George reassured each apology, each whispering of guilt, pulling her tight into his chest.  "Love, you did nothing, everything is alright.  Ron is alright."

                "Hermione," Fred's voice boomed over the soft conversation, "If it's any consolation, I wouldn't want a hug from Ron either.  Smells like dead walking, he does."

                Never had George been so thankful for his twin brother.  Ron's offended retort was lost in the air.  Fred, his other half, laughed fully while Harry's own laughter joined Fred's with glimmer of understanding.  But, it was the soft watery whisper of a giggle that floated against his chest made George's heart swell with joy.  Hermione, though still sobbing with guilt, was back.  And that was something far beyond magical.


	21. Confrontation

**Love and War Chapter 20  
Confrontation**

* * *

Never had a night lasted this long. In the quiet of  _one_  evening, time stood still, and  _everything_  happened. Fear and admissions. Heartbreak and reconciliations. Near death experiences and propositions. Even the most unlikely of recoveries took place. It all happened and Fred Weasley was there through the blood, sweat, and tears. Needless to say, he was exhausted.

Yet, the night was far from over.

With a sigh, Fred shut the door to the infirmary and began his descent to the main floor of Kingsley's stronghold. Hermione Granger, his patient and his twin brother's love, was finally on the road to recovery. The poison scan was complete and the antidote administered. Now, she needed the time to rest.

Picking at the skin on his nail, he felt the ache in his fingers from the complex magic that had flown through them not long ago. His back slumped forward, shoulders heavy with fatigue, as exhaustion took its toll. When he reached the main floor, Fred felt the dull thud behind his eyes, strained from reading texts and brewing potions, and he knew instantly the solution. What Hermione needed now was rest, and what he needed was a stiff drink.

Rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, Fred found a large bottle of firewhiskey. He did not bother with a tumbler, not when he planned to polish the bottle, and made his way to the sitting room. Standing in the entrance, he regarded the scene with lethargy. This was where it all began.

He moved through the room, passing the remnants of the chaos, and collapsed on the couch. The over turned armchair, the broken wooden china cabinet, and the shattered dishes. These were the few signs of what occurred less than two hours ago. The mess was easily fixable, a few swishes of a wand would have righted it all, but Fred did not have the strength. Instead, he gripped the glass tight, uncorking and bringing it to his lips. He drank deep, feeling the sting in this throat, and relished in the warmth that began to settle in his stomach.

Oh, he definitely needed that.

Placing the bottle on the end table, Fred leaned back into the cushions and let his eyes wander to the surprisingly unscathed grandfather clock. The second hand kept rhythm, ticking off the passing moments of time at a snail's pace. Ten thirty one and fifty eight seconds. Ten thirty one and fifty nine seconds. Ten thirty two.

He just wanted this day to end. Maybe in the morning he could deal with all this, but not now. Not today. Too much happened today, and it was his fault.

George had trusted him to keep the situation tame, keeping Hermione unscathed, and what did Fred do? How did he respond? He had failed, that is how. Fred Weasley had failed. Failed his _twin_. Now, George had to deal with the repercussions.

Sure, Fred acted, taking care of all the medical procedures. He would have anyway, but the explosiveness of the prior could have been avoided. Hermione Granger was a hysterical wreck, though now physically more stable, and George Weasley was the one up there cleaning up  _his_  colossal blunder. Of one thing Fred was sure, this disaster was his fault.

All that had been required of him was more control. The ability to manage his younger brother, Ron's aggressive reaction, he used to have that. It was a power that somehow eluded him and Fred was like a gaping fish.

With another swig of the whiskey, Fred realised he should have insisted that George be present during that meeting from the start. Instead, he pushed the opposite. Fred and George should never be separated. This never would have happened if Fred and George acted like a team. The brilliant team that they always were. George Weasley sat out on one mission debriefing and the whole world fell apart. That was enough proof for Fred.

Voices and footsteps neared closer to the sitting room and startled Fred out of his revere but he remained motionless seemingly unbothered by the disturbance. Slumped in the cushions of the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table, and the glass bottle of amber liquid nestled in his lap, Fred sat unmoved by the two younger boys entering the room. It was only when his name was called that he let his focus rise from the floor.

Looking up Fred met the worried gaze of Harry Potter and immediately regretted it. This was not the conversation he wanted to have. Not at all.  _Not today_.

"Fred," Harry took a seat on the now righted armchair with Ron in the other. "Any news?" Fred only shrugged, resuming his staring contest with the floor. Could the prats not see he was brooding? He had no time for silly inquisitions. "Was she given the proper medication?" Harry continued, and Fred nodded, taking another drink to quell his irritation.

"Oh, come off it, Fred," Ron's voice boomed loudly, and with a sigh, Fred realised his attempts were completely futile. Irritation was enviable. "Will you just tell us what's bloody wrong with her?"

"Ron," Harry interjected sternly, "calm down. I know you're upset–" But before Harry could finish, Ron interrupted.

"Upset?" He cried, "Upset! I can't even hug her and George is  _touching_  her like that. For Merlin's sake, I can't go near her because George bleeding well said so!"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Ron," Fred gritted out slowly between clenched teeth. His tone morphed to the icy calm one that George had used earlier that evening as he forbade Ron from entering the infirmary ward. It was eerily quiet, Ron's tirade chopped to huffed breaths.

Taking another mouthful, Fred felt his blood boil with alcohol and rage. How was Fred supposed to control this oaf of a boy? The same oaf that was on a vital mission for the Order. The same oaf that surprisingly managed not to muck it all up. But, really, Ron had done just that, had he not?

The redhead sitting before him was there when Hermione was captured. He was there when the Death Eaters took a muggleborn. A  _muggleborn_  for Merlin's sake. Fred's grip tightened a little, he let the alcohol calm him with another, shaky, but large swig. This was why George was so angry towards their younger brother. Brushing his unoccupied hand through his ginger locks, he envisioned all of which his twin confided earlier that afternoon.

Oh, that cut deep.

The hopelessness Fred had felt. The real helpless shock that had seeped through him as Hermione retreated on the floor at his feet. He was unable to do anything. And that was in safety. George had found a lifeless Hermione in a broken cell and watched her get tortured for weeks. He had been unable to do anything. Fred could only imagine the intensity of George's mirrored fear.

Couple that with the deep love. Fred shuddered, paling with the image of Angelina in Hermione's stead. He could not bear to think it.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the immensity of the sensations surrounding him, but Fred finally snapped.

"Did you know George was captured?" His words were as sharp as steal, slicing through the silence of the air like a sword unsheathed.

"George," Harry whispered, registering the news, but was quickly quieted. Fred slammed the bottle down on the side table, the liquid sloshing against the sides violently.

"You're so well hidden," Fred growled out as he rose from his seat. He just could not sit anymore, not with the energy rushing through his veins. "You're brother was captured and guess who he saw when he got there?"

"I-I" Ron sputtered, unable to form any coherence.

"A muggleborn at the hands of those sick bastards and you just went on with your merry day, assuming that getting her out, would be, what, instant? You knew about her location better than we did, why didn't you two try and trace her?" Fred paced the length of the carpet, his emotion consuming him in a blind fury. He was oblivious to the wide eyes following his movements, even as he paused to give Ron a frozen glare.

"The mission—" Ron started but was once again cut off.

"You're so wrapped up this bloody mission you've got no idea what's happening with the rest of the war." There was an echo through the room as Fred screamed, his voice bouncing off the high ceilings with ease. "A muggleborn witch connected to Harry? For Merlin's sake, they kept her alive as bait. Two months of torture and you expect her to be ready for more?"

"Fred," Harry said cautiously and Fred had to stop himself from throwing the whiskey across the room breaking that damned clock. Deep breaths were brought into his lungs, but rage still blazed, "please, tell us what happened."

"What happened was the complete derailment of a brilliant witch." Everyone in the room was startled as George's voice filled the air.

With a heavy sigh, Fred settled back into his seat on the couch, watching as Harry and Ron turned to the door. There his twin stood in the entrance to the sitting room, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He looked ragged with dark circles surrounding his eyes and thick stubble covering his chin. George was visibly more exhausted than Fred could ever have been, and yet, George remained against the frame, stoic as steel, and daring anyone to cross his path.

This would not end well.

* * *

Fred's defeated sigh registered in him, but George hardly cared. He was lost in sleep deprivation. With muddled hearing and strained muscles, George waited against the door, letting the wood support his weight. The air was strained, taut with uncertainty. It was clear everyone clenched in anticipation. A whirlwind of chaos or calm collection was about to happen and it would only be described as tense.

Ron and Harry were rigid, wide eyes and slightly pale, the after math of his twin's lecture still crashing over them. And it was one hell of a lecture. George heard most of it on the stairs on the way down. Fred's voice was electric, the words charged with static bolts as they thundered. Even with one ear, the anger had received loud and clear, and George was certain it lingered.

His vision tunnelled slightly as he glanced around the room, his eyes finding Fred. Fuming with a simmering ferocity, Fred's face was red with a flush. His eyes were little glassy while his fingers fidgeted slightly with the couch fabric. Yes, his twin had indeed been drinking.

With a smirk, George spotted the glass bottle of firewhiskey on the side table just behind Fred.

Perfect. The hard stuff.

On the opposite end of the couch, George sat and motioned for the drink. The candle light glinted off the clear glass as it settled into George's grasp and he raised it to his lips. One gulp of amber. Yes, he needed this. Two gulps of amber. Oh, boy had he needed this. The third gulp went down, just as quick, and he felt his stomach singe.

"How's she doing?" Fred asked finally. The haze of firewhiskey and fatigue was blocking out the words slightly, but George heard the question and immediately felt deflated.

"Not good," George replied, downing another quick mouthful before handing the bottle over to Harry. "She's convinced she killed Ron. Nearly snapped her wand on two occasions."

A strangled silence fell over the scene in the sitting room. The alcohol passed through them in turns, each drowning in the numbing feel with a few swallows. The steady intake of whiskey fuelled emotionally charged curiosity. Two boys sat, burning with questions, while the other two suffered from the answers. With another sigh, George turned to face his twin, "Give 'em a quick run down."

Harry and Ron both perked up instantly, but their rapt attention only seemed to irritate George more. Where was that attention when Hermione had been captured? Where was that attention when she had broken down in front of them? When she had cursed Ron?

"The curiatus curse," Fred began, pulling George to the same speech he heard countless times. Now, however, George was already convinced and as much as he wanted to tune it out, the droll explanation helped roadblock his anger. "It leaves a type of poison. The poison is slow acting, causing the victim to have the memories of the pain. If only used once or twice, treatment is not necessarily needed since the poison can work its way out of the body with the withdrawals. But, in Hermione's case, she had twenty percent of her blood replaced."

"Sh-She's dying?" Ron asked with a choked gasp, and despite the lurching feeling that surged through him, George remained in a stoic slump. Beating Ron to a pulp was not the proper way to deal with his thoughts. This was the exhaustion playing tricks on him. It had to be. George could not possible be that angry with his brother.

"No, not dying." Fred corrected. "As I said, the poison blends nightmare with reality, slowly deteriorating the mental state of the person. Trauma is a side effect from any type of inflection, both mental and physical, so some trauma just cannot be healed. She has been given the antidotes for the lingering dark magic, but I expect night terrors to continue, just not conscious flashbacks. She may have ended up like Frank and Alice Longbottom, if we had not started treatment tonight."

George paled slightly, hunching forward to bury his face into his palms. The thought of Hermione admitted to consistent care at St. Mungo's, completely lost to reality, shook him to the very core. He bit the inside of his cheek, attempting to control his waning temper, but his control was slipping. The alcohol stirred in his chest, bursting through his veins, and blanketing his body with fluid heat.

"This is what you were trying to bring up tonight? This is why she cursed Ron." The deduction passed Harry's lips and George bristled. It was obvious and unnecessarily spoken, and most importantly, did not help one bit.

George shut his eyes, pushing the heels of his palms into the lids, rubbing sparks of colour into his vision, attempting to urge more than red to paint the black. She cursed Ron, yes, Hermione cursed Ron. But, Hermione did not think it was Ron. No, she was reliving something much, much worse, and George was struggling to avoid that line of thought.

"She thought Greyback was advancing on her again from what I gathered," And there it was. Fred spoke aloud the very last piece of kindling George could take. He was oblivious to the concern of the other boys as he took the bottle from his twin once more, greedily tossing back a large mouthful.

His finger tightened, knuckled turning white against the glass, as George tried, and failed, to force his focus on the burning. The soothing sting of the alcohol was present, but it could not banish the memories clinging to his mind. With another quick sip, George felt the tremors shudder through him, rippling through the fluid. The blood suddenly rushed past his ears, blocking out the quiet conversation surrounding him.

 _Greyback_ , he spat the name out like venom. That bloody wolf would pay for touching her. For forcing himself upon her. For marking her mind and body with that moment forever. The dog would be ripped apart limb from limb with the scent of werewolf blood filling the air. George was going to kill him.

George leaned back into the cushions. His shoulders slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest. Deep breathes. In and out. A murderous rampage was not in the cards right now. He tried to calm himself, tried to regain control, but thinking of his witch laying upstairs so broken, drove him beyond the capacity of rationality.

But if he were being honest here, George blamed himself for everything. It was his fault really. Hermione never would have cursed Ron if she had been in treatment sooner. Not listening to his twin's expertise led them down this road. George almost wanted to curse himself for ever delaying her recovery.

Hermione was his everything. The earth, the sky, and all the magic in between was nothing but her. Hermione Granger was all of it and George Weasley failed her. He had sworn he would protect her. She was pure life and goodness, nothing but absolute bliss, and he had let her down when she got hurt.

The only redemption George felt was in the treatment Hermione finally did receive.

"Merlin," George heard Ron say, drawing his attention just slightly. "Hermione can hit hard." Pride swelled in his chest at that. Damn right, Hermione could hit hard. She was his strong, beautiful witch. Bright and cunning. Brilliant and creative. And, her reflexes were still quick despite all that happened. She was a force to be reckoned with and George beamed at her success. "I just never expected her to actually curse me. I don't get it."

"Ron," Fred said with a sly smile, "You're an idiot."

"Fred just explained it," Harry snorted, curving George's lips up as he reached for the bottle once more, "but you were too thick to listen."

"Oi, I'm not thick!" The words around George circled and swirled, melding into new ones, the exhaustion taking him further into his thoughts. The surrounding bickering was pushed aside to bring Molly Weasley's words to the forefront.

Earlier she had praised him.  _Him_. George Weasley, mischief-maker extraordinaire. His mother was proud of him. Proud of his capacity of love. Proud of his devotion. Proud to call him her son. It warmed him far more than the whiskey ever could. Made him satisfied in the man he was going to be. The man he would be for Hermione.

"George," Fred said, drawing his attention. Their eyes met with a crash of water and ice, as the twins spoke without speaking. Fred was worried and George was just angry. His ears were tinted red with frustration, his rage breaking through his stoic resolve with a snap, as he rested his gaze on Ron.

"What the hell were you thinking?" George hissed, his lips forming a small snarl. The flames of his fury were making him feral.

"What was I thinking? What were  _you_  thinking?!" Ron yelled back in response. "You know how I feel about Hermione, how could you."

"You don't feel anything about Hermione," George's words severed whatever hesitation remained. This was it, the chaotic whirlwind confrontation that needed to happen. Ron was fuming but George, he was beyond that. Far beyond anything remotely human, George hovered just outside of absolute insanity. "You make some moronic claim to her, one you think you are entitled to, but you don't feel anything real about Hermione."

"What would you know about it," Ron bit back, his voice lowering slightly, "nothing, because you never really cared to know about her yourself." There was quiet for a moment, as George breathed deep through his nose, attempting to stop a physical response, and Ron took advantage of the pregnant pause, considering it a victory. "She's mine."

"Y-Yours?" George sputtered, standing abruptly to tower over the younger boy, the whiskey still firmly in his grasp. "Are you listening to yourself?"

"And what you think she belongs to you?"

"Fuck, Ron." He cursed, and with a loud crash Ron jumped. The bottle shattered against the wall with George's throw, the liquid training down the wall and staining the cream paint with a gold splash. "She doesn't  _belong_  to anyone." How in Merlin's name could his little brother breathe an idea so preposterous? Hermione Granger was the very definition of freewill and independence. She brilliance wrapped in skin.

"She is absolutely brilliant," George continued, his rant taking life as he paced laps around the room. "And strong, so strong that she fought against all they did. And determined, so absolutely breathtakingly determined. I've never seen someone so determined to live, and thrive, and defeat evil. You're lucky she only stunned you, Ron." A quick glance was all George shot Ron, as he let lose all the thoughts swimming in his mind. "I'm sure she would've wanted to do worse to anything that came her way but she held back 'cause she's just so good. But then again you would know all about that wouldn't you?"

"Well yea," Ron started, finding his footing in the heated exchange, "but you're forgetting mental. Mental she is. And bloody scary." He rubbed the back of his head, emphasizing his point by hinting towards the ghost of pain on his skin.

"Ron," George halted his steps. Shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, he sucked in a sigh. "You're my brother, and I really do love you, and trust me I know how broken she is right now, but I don't bloody care. If I had to choose, if you made me choose," Ron's eyes widened with a gulp. He obviously was not expecting another brother deflecting from the family. This was something almost unheard of, not after the void Percy left. The rift which remained torn in their mother's heart, even after Percy returned, was enough to make it an unmentionable notion. But, George was beyond serious, and that, in turn, was beyond terrifying. "Not even a contest. I'd choose her, every time."

"Whoa, Georgie," Fred cleared his throat, and George turned his attention away from Ron's paling face. "Very smooth. When did you get all sappy? "

Fred winked and George let himself smile at the jibbing, but despite the laughter, the sincerity was there. George was resolute in his vow. He would choose Hermione. It was not just some attempt to make Ron back off.

Ron cleared his throat, rising from his seat and excusing himself from the room. As he watched his younger brother retreat upstairs, the fight draining from both of them, George knew what was needed. The boy needed time, but Hermione needed him. She had said so, announced it in her declaration of love and George would not waver. He had to be a constant for her. Never again would he let her down. For the rest of his life, George Weasley would stand beside Hermione Granger, if she let him, and George would sacrifice anything, even his place amongst the Weasley's, to do just that

The choice was simple. One that he would make in a heartbeat because without Hermione, George did not think his heart could in fact beat.


	22. Clarification

**Love and War Chapter 21  
** **Clarification**

* * *

In the last months, Hermione Granger had woken up in a haze far more times than she could count. Each was thoroughly unsettling. Not knowing what would be waiting past the darkness was a terror. A mist made her vision blurry, leaving her vulnerable to any hovering threat, and, with a war raging around her, defenceless was one position she would rather not be. But, as her gaze settled on the shaggy redhead beside her, Hermione felt being vulnerable was an all right place after all.

Her fingers threaded through George Weasley's hair, running in the soft strands as she trailed a path down to his neck. He looked uncomfortable, slumped forward in his armchair with his head on her bed. Obviously, George refused to leave her side, resting on his forearms as he watched over her, even in slumber. Dark circles marred his face, making it appear hollow, and, though he was asleep, Hermione could see a conscious worry fighting for dominance.

Merlin, he must be exhausted.

"He finally passed out about fifteen minutes ago." Hermione jumped, nearly screaming out. The familiar voice startled her out of her skin, and she placed her free hand to her chest in an attempt to slow the rapid beating of her heart.

The shadows of the infirmary highlighted the night, and Harry Potter used it to his advantage. Moonlight trailed in through the high arched windows, streaming through the ward. It glinted off his glasses, twinkling just for a moment before the dark smothered the reflection. Swallowed by the gloom, Harry nestled in a chair on her left, guarding her bed.

Well, he certainly got better at being unseen.

"Harry," Hermione let out a relieved breath, glad to see her best friend was relatively unharmed.

"How are you feeling?" Harry was avoiding her eye as he asked timidly, his voice wavering just so, and any relief she felt quickly vanished.

She knew this Harry Potter. Oh yes, Hermione knew him. This was the Harry Potter, who let his thoughts get the better of him. This was the insecure young Harry Potter, who was afraid of the realities of war. This was a child inside the brave Harry Potter, who selflessly blamed himself for the wrong doings of others. Yes, she knew this Harry Potter very well.

"Fine," she lied smoothly, though she was far from it. The first sign of that had to be seeing things that were not real. The second was casting a curse at her dear friend. Ron Weasley's motionless body haunted her but now was not the time to show her emotional trauma. Not when the chosen one was feeling guilty.

"And the potions?" Staring out the castle window, Harry fidgeted nervously in his lap. Her fingers were trembling as well but with suppressed pain instead of remorse. Her skin was pale, and her lips border-lined on blue, but, with a gentle smile, she braved on, and attempted to remain nonchalant.

"The potions are a breeze." That was another lie. The potions were vile; who knew that antidotes would be just as difficult at the poison itself. Fred had warned her but, obviously, she was not prepared enough.

The curse was leaving the same way it came in: with excruciating magic. She felt the toxic fumes stinging her wounds on exit as the poison evaporated out of her body. The taste was bitter, and the effects burned, leaving her insides a charred mess. Fever ripped through her veins, chills swelled up her spine, and air was difficult to breathe in but, Harry did not need to know this.

"Don't do that," he whispered, his hand rising to wipe a tear off his cheek.

Leave it to Harry to suddenly become observant. "Don't pretend it's all right, that  _this_  is all right. Merlin, Hermione, what you went through."

"Harry," Hermione said softly, trying to reassure him in some way, but words eluded her.

"I am so, so sorry." Hermione was taken back. Never had she seen Harry get this upset. Ginny always informed her after the fact, but Hermione never witnessed it firsthand. The breaths leaving him were ragged with tears, his apologies coming in chopped pleas. This was a new voice, one entirely different than the strained tone she was used to. Emptiness surrounded his tone, the vowels vibrating with violent devastation and the words withering away to silence; he sounded utterly defeated.

"No," the hand that not tangled in George's hair reached for him, gripping Harry's wrist in order to grab his attention. Green eyes shone with glassy tears. Emotion and compassion breezing through the forest in the orbs; the leaves rustling with sadness and the wilderness depressed with shame. "Harry, I want you to listen to me carefully. This is not your fault."

"Oh, come off it, Hermione," Harry snapped. "You could've died and cause of me. I don't even know how you did it, but all of a sudden I was apparated to some forest and I knew what you'd done." He heaved a sigh, falling silent for a moment, and Hermione tightened a squeeze to his wrist before allowing him to pull back.

"I had every reason to," she whispered. Continuing the repetitive strokes through George's hair, she felt him inch closer to her touch, and Hermione settled her oncoming tears. The action calmed her. His presence comforted her. It reminded her of who she was protecting when she protected Harry, told her of the freedom she was fighting for and, most importantly, reminded her of the love that would always guide her. "I've made my own decisions in this war. Who I fight, what for, and who with is entirely my choice, and the consequences of those choices are not in any way your fault, Harry."

"I know that, it's just—."

"Stop blaming yourself for everything," Hermione interrupted firmly, "I don't. No one does. So, you shouldn't."

"George does," Harry nodded his head over to the sleeping wizard who devotedly remained by her bedside.

The bed dipped slightly next to her thigh, George's face blank, as his fists clenched slightly, and she scoffed. Harry thought he had George all figured out, and it was disturbingly inaccurate. One looking at George could see how troubled he was by what happened at Malfoy Manor, both to him and to Hermione, but that fury was not aimed at Harry. Not really. "He blames me and Ron for what happened."

"He does not," Hermione had determination laced in her voice, blanketing the air with finality. Earlier, George's ocean blue eyes had burned with an icy ferocity, that protective passion steaming through him, and fuelling Hermione with new strength, but it was not  _because of Harry_. No, the one in his crosshairs had claws, and fur.

Hermione closed her eyes as memories began surfacing; real memories, not delusions. The hands that had gripped at her, at him, the vile woman who had tormented her nights with wicked curses, the werewolf who had marked her with sharp cuts; all of it flooded in a muddled horror. George Weasley was certainly angry, but the real reason was alive in a death eater stronghold. "The only people who George blames are death eaters."

"If I'd known I would've come, y'know I would've."

Hermione knew. Of course, she knew. Harry was her best friend, her brother, her  _family_. Just looking at him, face buried in his palms as he pleaded with her, Hermione could see he would not have abandoned her. It was the same reason she had protected him, and always would. No matter what, Harry was her blood now, and protecting one another was all part of the package, but Hermione was far too stunned at his begging. She only managed a responding nod, hoping that it was enough.

The conscious pair lapsed into a calm quiet. The sounds of a simmering cauldron and the ticking clock echoed through the hospital wing, and Hermione watched George sleep. The goofy grin he wore brought her joy as he shifted slightly. He really was incredible to look at. A strong jaw accented by light stubble, broad shoulders made more powerful by a defined back, muscular arms just meant to hold her safe. And it was then Hermione realized fully that this man, his love and soul, it all belonged to her. Her heart swelled up with the utmost pride.

"I've never seen him like this before," Harry let loose breaking the moment, "I'm pretty sure he'd do anything for you."

Hermione smiled shyly, glancing over at the serene face again, watching him doze on. Her fingers traced the bone down his cheek before running through the hair behind his ear wound. Of one thing Hermione was certain, George Weasley loved her.

"I know," she was wispy and subdued despite the aches in her body, the loose strands of her curly hair falling forward to conceal her blush.

"He's a good man."

"The best," she said, smiling wider as she watched George twitch in slumber. His lips curved into a subtle smirk, as if he knew Hermione was complementing him. Oh, she loved him. He was air to empty lungs, water to thirsty mouths, and sun to empty skies. "I don't think I've ever loved someone like this before."

 _I am glad you had the chance_.

Looking up at Harry's face, she felt the words. They danced through the air, the ones unspoken louder than ever. That was what Harry wanted to say. The letters were in his eyes, watching her with a reserved happiness, even as he said, "I can tell." This war was taking its toll on him, and it broke her heart. Being away from her friends for so long, Hermione was pulled away from the stress and into a different kind of terror. She was isolated in it, lost to the world, but sitting next to Harry now, looking at the haunted shame which embodied him completely, Hermione knew what had to be done.

"When are we leaving?" she asked, and Harry's eyes widened. He looked like an animal caught in a trap until the shock wore off. Then the irritation set in.

" _You_  are not going anywhere," he said with fierce conviction. "Me and Ron are leaving tomorrow night."

"Not without me," hers was just as fierce. "You said it yourself.  _You_  need a researcher."

"We aren't doing this, Hermione," Harry's anger radiated off him, the heat scalding her worse than the antidotes, and Hermione swore that George was shaking with a mirrored anger. "Think about this before you get all fixated. You're still undergoing treatment, there's no way," he gestured to her, the light sweat which clung to her skin, and the rickety trembles which radiated through her muscles, making his point, "you can't do this on the run."

"But I could still help."

"Not like this you can't," he pressed, "let yourself rest, Hermione." A part of her knew that fighting the decision was useless while the other part did not want to admit it. She was about to argue again, push to have her way, but Harry grabbed her hand in his, asking her to see reason. "I promise you that once you're better I won't argue if you come back, wand raised, and ready to give those bastards hell," pausing he let out a breath. "I can't lose any more of my family. Neither one of us can."

And there it was. The flaming arrow into a vat of petrol. An explosion of grief igniting with a splash through her body, smothering her with longing. George was no longer throbbing, his heat suddenly taking on a tender sensation as his presence managed to soothe the sting of Harry's sentiment. The sacrifice Hermione had made was her parents, and now Harry was the only family left, along with the Weasleys.

Harry was right. If she went back out on the hunt, Hermione would do more damage than good. And yet, she was a born fighter. Her inner warrior raged within her, dying to bring an end to injustice. She could not let them down, not a single one of them. If that meant fighting through pain to bring down evil, then she would, because winning this war was what Hermione Granger was meant for.

"I've got to do something," she said, looking up at Harry's determined gaze. He was stuck in his mindset, keeping her, his adopted sister, out of jeopardy. "I can't just sit here and do nothing." Her mumbling dropped to a soft whisper, as her psyche rapidly raced for solutions. But she could not stop her focus from remaining on the events of the evening.

The whole incident in Kingsley's sitting room weighed hard on her shoulders. Two curses had come to mind when she thought Greyback was standing before her, and not knowing which she spoke aloud scared her. She was definitely not in control of herself, not fully at least. Hermione was a loose cannon.

Holding back a groan, she felt a rather large shiver of pain rush through her. She tightened her hold on George's locks briefly, anchoring her to a reality beyond the painful wave.

_It would be better if you helped them from here._

George's voice suddenly boomed off the canyons of her skull, reverberating through her bones. His words rang an alarm bell within. It was not in Hermione to surrender so quickly. It was not in George either, which is why he so readily understood her desire to fight. The logic, however, was inescapable. Going on the road was a huge risk.

_It would be better if you helped them from here._

He had said that to her, whispered it against her hair when she had expressed desire to rejoin the fight. Communication was almost symbolic of power in this war. It was difficult to achieve covertly, and, if it could be accomplished, an advantage to be gained. All they needed was a way for communication.

_It would be better if you helped from here._

Yes, but how was that even possible. Letters were unreliable; easily traced and far from immediate. Telephones, both mobile and lined, were primitive; widely known and anything but inconspicuous. No, what they needed was instant and covert.

The corner of her mouth tugged upward, her lips forming a grin; instant and covert were certainly within their grasp.

"Maybe it would be better if I helped from here," Hermione said suddenly, her eyes gleaming with brilliance. Oh, she was on to something.

"Your rest is nonnegotiable," Harry was apparently not catching on.

"No," she started, "I mean, I  _could_  helpfrom here."

"Hermione, stress is not—"

"Just hear me out," Harry still, patient though eying her sceptically. "I could research here. It'd be ideal considering how extensive Kingsley's library is. The only thing we need is a way to communicate my findings."

"I suppose," Harry was intrigued, but still sceptical. "But owls are being intercepted left and right."

"I wasn't suggesting owls," she said with a smile. "George was telling me of a product her and Fred invented while in Hogwarts. A parchment that let you write notes to each other without the knowledge of your professor."

"I'm listening," Harry sat up straighter, moving the chair closer to her bedside as if the proximity would add protection to their conversation. He obviously did not take into account the set of unconscious, and slightly damaged, ears next to them.

"All we'd need to do is add more security to it, work out the kinks, and we could instantly have a line of communication." Hermione grinned widely, letting her solution become a victory as she watched Harry's lips mimic hers. "I'm sure Fred and George would help with that, maybe even the marauders themselves."

"And you're sure you're up for that this?" Harry pressed his argument. His eyebrow rose, watching the quivers in her hand as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't want you to push yourself harder than necessary."

"I'm sure, Harry," somehow, despite her timber teetering with unsteady breaths, despite fever burning her body with chill and pain, Hermione managed to sound reassuring. "I am fine."

"Ok," he said, leaning back into his seat, and the small curve on his face grew in size. "But only if Fred approves it."

Satisfied in her solution, Hermione was beaming when she felt George stir.

Finally, he decided to join them. Just as she decided she wanted to invest herself so deeply in this war once again. Perfect timing. George twitched slightly as he moved, and Hermione tensed for a moment. He would never oppose her decision, he would offer full support, but George would be worried about her beyond belief. And with good reason.

Hermione was not completely better, neither mentally or physically. There was a very substantial chance that she may not survive to see the end of this fight, and that was an outcome that scared George so deeply. Hermione knew because the thought of his death invoked the same reaction in her. The thought of living without him, it chilled her to the bone.

He shifted his weight to turn his face the other direction. With the crinkling of his nose, George let out a huff of air. She ran the tips of her fingers down his forearm, hushing his sleep disturbance, and linking her fingers with his. Groggily he stirred again, eyelids crunching before opening slowly.

"Hey you," Hermione said playfully, relishing in the boyish joy which glinted in his eyes.

"Look who's up." Sleep made his voice hoarse, thick and rough, stirring her away from anxiety. Bringing their linked hands to his lips, George kissed a series of pecks on her knuckles before releasing her to stretch out his arms. The rising of his shirt let a glimpse of the defined abs free for just a moment, sending Hermione rushing through a whirlwind of desire. Why was he so far from her? "How are you feeling?"

"Never better," she swallowed hard, feeling herself heat up as he ran his fingers through her curls before cupping her cheek. She nuzzled into the palm, enjoying the cool skin ease the heat into another burning swell.

"Merlin, Hermione," he whispered, jerking his hand away to press the back of it against her forehead, "you're burning up."

"A-am I?" she sputtered. Was her yearning that apparent? Was it manifesting physically?

"Yeah," Casting a glance over to Harry, George motioned across the room. Oh, this was beyond embarrassing, "Potter get me a cold washcloth will you?" Hermione closed her eyes, hoping to shut out the moment entirely, but Harry's echoing steps left her flushing bright red. "You sure you're feeling all right, love. You're red."

"Yes," Hermione cleared her throat, cold damp cloth pressing against her forehead, drawing her eyes open. "I'm all right. Just peachy, promise."

"Maybe you should get some more sleep?" Harry suggested.

"Yes, that probably is wise." Hermione would sleep through it all if she had to. Anything to take her away from this embarrassment. She was mortified.

"I'll leave you two alone then," Harry rose from his seat, leaning down to pull Hermione into a tight hug. "We'll talk tomorrow morning," he said quietly along with a muffled express of relief that she was now safe, and with that, he left. The footfalls faded down the corridor as he made his exit, drowning the ward in silence.

"Love," George asked, and her eyes immediately locked with his blue ones. "Is this helping? Should I go get Fred?"

"I promise you I am fine," her hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him, and the wet cloth, from her forehead. "Please, stop worrying."

"Can't help it," he whispered seriously before giving her a wink. He tossed the towel to the side with a snort, "plus, if I stop, you'll probably get yourself back in this awful place. One of us has to be the responsible one in this relationship."

"Is that what we are in now? A relationship?" She bit her lip as she averted his gaze, nervously taking in the bedspread covering her legs. The stark white sheets were suddenly very intriguing despite the curial moment. Yes, they shared a very real unwavering love but the clarification of what exactly they were to each other suddenly made Hermione very nervous.

Either they were bound by the experience of joint capture, their time forever linked to the duration of the war, or they were gifted with unyielding devotion, love gracing them for the rest of their days.

"I would assume so," with a chuckled, he placed a finger under her chin grabbing back her focus. "I mean, a Prefect stormed up to me declaring her undying love. I can't let an opportunity like that pass by, now can I?"

"No, I suppose not." Hermione was grinning widely, unable to suppress the happiness that flowed through her. Any doubt she may have had vanished with his evident bubbling joy. He loved and wanted her. George Weasley fancied her as his, and that made everything else, the pain, the tears, and the embarrassment, worth it.

"Absurd to even think otherwise," George's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb drawing circles on the skin. The feeling was disorienting, making her dizzy with excitement.

"Unfathomable," she scoffed, "walking away from that."

"Wouldn't dream of it, love." And before she could think of a retort, his lips claimed hers in a heated kiss. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close, and she responded with zeal.

"George," she whimpered against his lips. The gap between the chair and the bed was much too great. Something had to be done. Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, gaining a bit of height as she sat up on the mattress. Climbing from the blankets, she pushed George back into the chair and settled sideways on his lap. Her legs draped over his, her fists clenched the front of his hunter green sweater, and his arms wrapped her into his embrace.

"Are you cold?" George mumbled as his fingers traced a shiver up her spine. She responded by swiping her tongue against the seam of his lips, making him groan.

There was no better sound.

Leaning back further into the arm rest, Hermione hummed against his tongue. Her hands began to play with the hair at the back of his neck, nails scratching the skin slightly, before she felt his weight shift. His forearm rested next to her, holding George above, and her flush against his chest. Her mind fogged with yearning, enveloping her within a cloud of cushion and George.

The controlled touch he commanded masterfully grew more frenzied. His fingers travelled from the bare skin of her lower back to the midriff of her front, making her arch into him. With a groan, he kissed his way down the column of her neck, moaning against her skin when her hands trailed down to the hem of his sweater.

It did not belong on his skin. That sytherin piece of wool denied her the flesh she longed to caress. Hermione tugged at the fabric, dragging it upward, and George pulled back to remove the very offending shirt before resuming the kiss.

The muscles on his back tensed against her touch while the moans were coaxed from her lips by his. Her nails dug into his shoulder when he bit her lower lip. His hands bunched the fabric of her t-shirt when she sucked at the skin on his neck. Their breaths grew ragged when their kiss finally pulled apart. Oxygen was paramount it seemed.

"'Mione," his forehead rested against hers. Dark longing and twinkled joy lingered in the confines of his eyes, immersing Hermione in a molten heaven. Leaning up, she kissed the skin on his collarbone, nipping at the thin flesh as he let out a low growl. "I'm hanging on by a thread here."

"I love you, George," she whispered, and George grinned. Her lips tingled, most likely as swollen as his as he stole another kiss. This one was softer, melting sweetness onto her palate, and she sighed.

This was nirvana. Hermione was certain there was nothing better than kissing George Weasley.

"Don't get any bright ideas now, love," George said against her lips, moving them so they could lie on the bed instead of the cramped chair. "I want you to remember I belong to a Prefect."

"A loony bin, that's where you belong," Hermione's laugh cascaded across the ceiling as she swatted his chest playfully, allowing him to pull her into his side.

"What a harsh thing to say," his voice was suddenly serious, and Hermione only laughed louder. "Loony bins are quite pleasant actually." Letting out a bark of laughter, she moved closer into his chest, the path his fingers danced relaxing her into a calm stupor.

Nuzzled under his arm was another one of those 'nothing-better-than' moments. Her head rested on his chest, his heart beating at a steady rhythm, and Hermione felt content in the harmony the tempo brought. "I love you too, Hermione." George's lips pressed against her temple.

Laying next to him, George's skin against hers, the warmth lulling her into inevitable exhaustion, Hermione was at peace. Her eyes drifted closed, her breathing slowing and sleep tugged her into its waiting hold. But she could not sleep. Not yet.

"George," she asked into the silence only to receive a sleepy grunt in response. "You'll prepare that parchment won't you?"

"The one to ' _communicate your findings_ '?" George quoted.

Of course, he knew. And Hermione was correcting in assuming George was aware of everything.

The sneaky trickster loved having the upper hand in the ways of information, his mischievous side shining fully in his actions. And yet, no matter how devious he could be, George Weasley was the most honest man Hermione Granger had ever known. She trusted him entirely, with her heart, her mind and everything in between, including the war.

"Don't worry, love," he said, nuzzling her hair with his nose. "I'll take care of everything."

* * *

_**Please review!** _


	23. Preparations

**Love and War Chapter 22**   
**Preparations**

* * *

It was near dawn when George Weasley woke. The early morning sun had warmed the infirmary in its rising, and was now flooding it with light. His eyes, still closed, twitched as he turned back onto his left side. The white sheets beneath him were damp against his skin, the thin layer of sweat glistening on his pale flesh a result of the heat, and yet, George felt cold. Not from fever, but from emptiness.

His arm stretched out blindly, trying to find the warm body that once nestled next to him. George gripped the bedding, his fingers flexing, and twisting the fabric as he exhaled. The feel of soft skin was absent from his touch, and, though he momentarily mistook the cotton for flesh, George instantly panicked.

 _Hermione_ , he thought, and his eyes shot open with the speed of a bullet. His pupils dilated before shrinking, the blue irises growing large against the black as the brightness blinded him, but George clambered out of bed with quick fluidity. Looking behind him at the empty cot for clues, he felt his heart stop. She was definitely missing, he realised, along with her pillow, and it was obvious that she had not been there for quite some time. The indentation of where she laid was barely noticeable anymore, and George's hand ran through his messy hair nervously, pulling at the strands that sat at the back of his neck.

She was gone.

Hermione, the wild-haired brilliant witch whom he had fallen so deeply in love with was gone. And in her stead were a rumpled sheet, and a barely lingering scent. Beads of newly formed sweat began to drip down his neck while a fear like no other rocked through him.

Missing. Hermione was missing again. His heart pounded, blood rushing through his veins with tremendous speed. Was she captured? Did the death eaters have her? George paled as memories of her broken form laying at the bottom of a dungeon cell flashed in his mind.

No. Merlin, no. George felt light headed, the sunlight suddenly tunnelling his vision into a white haze. This could not be happening. He had to find her. He had to find her now.

Just as he was about to race out the infirmary, her name an unheard scream almost breaking past the confines of his lips, a soft sigh broke through the pulsating drumbeat in his ears.

George froze mid-step, turning slowly, and glancing across the infirmary. His eyes were a raging whirlpool of stormy cerulean as met her form, and George let loose of all the tension. The waters stilled as if by magic, relief blanketing him from within, and George felt his heart burst with sheer joy.

There, in the alcove of a windowsill, Hermione sat. Her pillow bunched along the stonewall, cushioning her back. Her knees brought up, almost at her chest, holding an enormous book in place. Her bottom lip held between her teeth, the skin red from the gnawing as she turned the page. George's shaky breath was silent, and his hand came up to try, and tame the unruly mess of hair he had created.

She was perfect. Safe, and sound. And most importantly, there.

Bundled in a hunter green sweater, the one he discarded the previous night, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Hermione quietly read through a book. And George felt the rapid beating of his heart begin to slow.

The sight was so familiar; Hermione, with her nose buried in a comically oversized tome, eyes flickering with joy as she read through the pages of aged parchment. She was always reading, yet, looking at her now, George was looking at a different woman. His Hermione, engrossed in the printed word, nestled away from prying eyes, and distractions, was not the same bookworm from school, and George knew precisely what had changed.  _His_  Hermione. She was his now.

Bundled in his hunter green sweater with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows,  _his_  Hermione quietly read through a book.

George savoured the sight for a moment. His chest burst with a love that radiated down to the very tips of his fingers as he watched her. Her hair was untameable, pulling out of the messy braid holding it together. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat of the infirmary, making a glow surround her face. Her legs went on for days; the skin like silk draped on bones as they stretched out before her. George's heart began to thump faster, only this time it was not anxiety driving the pace.

It was then he moved. The steps were silent, careful not to disturb the peace Hermione found within the pages as he crossed the infirmary. Her hair fell before her eyes, the chestnut tresses glowing amber with the light streaming through the glass, and instinctively, George reached out to tuck the strands behind her ear.

Hermione jumped slightly, her trance broken but, when her eyes, molten amber, and swirling bright, met his, the sweetest of smiles graced her lips. Leaning down, George captured them in a tender kiss, his hands cupping her cheek, and she hummed against him.

"Morning," George whispered as he pulled back to rest his forehead against hers.

"If that is how you like to start the morning I would have woken you earlier," she said, slightly out of breath.

"You should've woke me." Her breath fanned across his face, drawing him into her once more. He leaned down to taste her but stopped when Hermione spoke.

"I realise that now," her soft laughter shivered through him like a current, connecting them in an invisible electricity, while her thumb traced the skin along his cheekbone. The dark bags, which surrounded his eyes, must have lessened. Nevertheless, her brows furrowed at the sight. "I figured you needed the rest."

"I could say the same for you," George smiled, trying to prove that he was all right, and he moved into the sill next to her. His arm draped over her shoulders while her head came to rest on his chest. Her warmth instantly smothered him in the most delightful feeling, and George would have simmered in it forever if he could, except there was something very pressing which distracted him. The blunt corner of the book she was reading dug into his side, making impossible to ignore the obvious.

He said nothing of it at first. Instead, he glanced down, taking in how Hermione cradled it in her lap. Her thumb held her place amidst the pages while her other hand lay across the top, tracing the title embossed on the cover. The silvery thread caught the light, glinting with brightness, and Hermione seemed to be struggling not to open it, and continue. Something about this text was important, almost unbearably captivating, to her, and George wanted to know why.

"What're you reading anyway?" He asked, not wanting to beat around the bush. Subtleties were not how they worked. Even if it was uncomfortable, Hermione, and he were always to the point.

"Concealment Charms, and Their Many Uses," she said softly, glancing back down to the black binding with a slight blush.

"For the parchment." The statement was needless. Of course, it was for the parchment. She was far too driven not to start on her mission right away. Still, he felt her nod in reply. The movement caused her hair to brush against his bare skin, tickling him slightly, and George chuckled before adding, "And it was so pressing that it stole you from my bed?"

Hermione laughed in return, but her face flamed an even brighter pink.

"Technically," she started, "it is my hospital bed."

"Can it not be ours?" With a pout, his lower lip jutted out.

"Hmm," she straightened up, and tapping a contemplative finger to her cheek, she answered with a coy smile. "I suppose that would be all right."

"Brilliant," George recovered instantly with a broad grin before he shot up, taking Hermione with him.

"George!" Her shriek was chopped in between bits of laughter as George scooped her in his arms, "what are you doing?"

"Stealing you back from that bloody book," he deadpanned, carrying her, her pillow, and the text, back over to the hospital cot.

"We can't spend all day in bed, George," she dropped to the soft bedding, and George just raised an eyebrow at her words. "All right, we can but we  _shouldn't_." She emphasized, "There is so much to do." He heaved a sigh, flopping back onto the mattress. He knew she was right. Ignoring responsibilities was not the answer. It was, however, certainly tempting.

"I know," the whisper pulled the corners of his mouth into a slight frown, but when Hermione joined him in laying down, a gentle smile tugged back, "and I promise we'll do all of it, but, let's just stay here for a while longer?"

"Ok," curling into George's side, trapping the book between them, she finally rested. Only George knew Hermione could not just yet. "But," she added quickly, "can we at least go through the plan?"

"You start then," George nodded, his fingers running up, and down the length of her arm in a familiar path. The feel of her skin beneath the tips of his fingers was, undoubtedly, the best feeling in the world. Especially after the earlier scare, he needed to have her close. He needed to ensure that the bliss he found in her was not some figment of his imagination.

"How much work have you, and Fred done on the parchment?" Her question came immediately.

"It's pretty much done," George said, remembering how the parchment was completed before Fred, and he moved into the burrow stronghold. "But it's still a prototype since it wasn't on the shelves."

"It was never tested outside of the workroom?" There was a hopeful cheer in Hermione's voice at the prospect, one George could thoroughly understand. The parchment must only be known to those involved, and that secrecy was crucial

"Never outside of Fred, and myself," he could practically hear Hermione's enthusiasm before he added, "we were thinking of sending some to Hogwarts for the kids, but that was before the Burrow fell."

"So, no one would even know that it could be anything more than just simple parchment?" She asked; the line of questioning going down the route she wanted, and George was anxious to get to whatever plan waited at the end.

"Except for Fred, and me."

"And myself, Harry, and Ron." George tightened his arm around her, feeling her shift slightly.

"No one else."

"Perfect," she mumbled, wriggling the book free, "how secure is the parchment as it stands."

"It's got the basics on it," George was disappointed when Hermione sat up, but that disappointment was shocked out of him with the dropping of the massive text. On his chest. "Ow, hey! 'Mione what exactly are you trying to do?"

"I need a table, hold still," not that George could do anything but hold still with the weight of the book holding him down against the mattress.

"You'll be the death of me, woman," he muttered, trying to peer over the side of the book.

"Oh, hush." Hermione smiled, getting up onto her knees, and leaning over the pages. The thick jumper she wore fell forward slightly, and any attempts to see the book were immediately thwarted. The shadow of skin exposed beneath the bunched wool pulled his attention away from research, and potential suffocation. And, though he could not see anything really, the prospect was very distracting.

"Where was it," she mumbled, flipping through the chapters. George folded his arms behind his head, propping his neck up, and patiently waiting for her to locate whatever she rushed to find. He prayed whatever thoughts swimming through his head would not be physically evident on his person. That was a little difficult with the way she leaned further over him, her breath against his chest in hurried pants as she frantically searched.

George was treading on dangerous territory. Sweet Merlin, he was in deep now.

"You got that far into it?" he asked, glancing down at the book that she was already half way into. This was his attempt to pull his focus back to reality, not that it worked. It did help to remind him of one paramount point: she was not ready for whatever physicality he may have wanted, not now anyway.

"I already finished it," Hermione blushed, her gaze meeting his briefly before adding, "twice."

"Merlin," his eyes widened slightly. He was both impressed, and a little worried at her dedication. "Did I sleep for a week?"

"Oh, ha ha," she mocked, "Ah! Here it is," turning the book on his chest he craned his neck, reading the section she pointed out.

"Blood magic?" he asked with shock as he pulled himself up to sit against the metal bed frame. He reread the section on blood infused incantations. His mind was reeling as he sped through the paragraphs.

_The infusion of blood into charms, and potions has always been a risky sector of magic, but still an ever-present practise. Spells, dating back to before the time of Merlin, have always had a blood element. A fitting name for such a category of work is simply 'traditional.' Even still, the magical practise of incorporating blood into an incantation has always been dangerous. More than often, the incantations backfire, the most-notable mishaps resulting in death on all whose blood is infused. Other attempts have led to the loss of limb, poisoning of the bloodline, and mental instability._

"They are the most-effective way at concealing information." She said stoically as she continued to recite the book she had obviously memorized, "it says so right here, 'the infusion holds the protection for as long as those involved remain alive, and the blood secures the protection to detect any magical attempts at forgery. Ploy juic—'"

"Blood magic!" George almost shouted, cutting her off. He could not believe this was even a consideration in her mind. This type of deadly magic was far too risky even to attempt, let alone implement. "Have you gone mad, Hermione?" He asked his eyes meeting hers with a stern look.

"No," she avoided his gaze, "not entirely."

"Oh, yes, entirely." He shot back, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Do you think, honestly, this is a good idea? You're still recovering, and you wanna jump back into this with a bleeding blood bond?"

"George, it is a very simple spell," she began hurriedly, trying to convince him that any form of danger was not present. Were they reading the same book? "It just binds the information to the parchment, ensuring only those bonded by the charm will be able to read it."

"You want to bind yourself to this parchment?" He asked, eyes wide, and utterly unsure whether Fred's antidote worked in the slightest. If this madness was mental stability, then George thought the world had the wrong definition. Maybe complete loss of any form of coherence would be more a fitting description.

"Erm, well, not just me actually." Again, Hermione avoided his gaze, instead taking great interest in the loose thread that escaped the sweater's intricate weave. "Harry, and possibly Ron would be bonded to it, and I was hoping you would agree as well."

"Let me get this straight," George began, his hand coming up to rub his forehead, "the four of us would be bonded,  _by blood_ , to this piece of paper?"

"Yes."

She was completely mad.

"All right, let's put aside the insanity for a moment." George met her eye again, but this time she held the gaze. Hermione looked defiant in her decision that this was the correct course of action. She looked ready to fight him on every point he would present, and that was far more attractive then the shadow beneath his wool sweater.

That defiance sent a shiver through him. She was truly gorgeous when she was determined. George suppressed a growl, wanting nothing more than to fuel the passion in her with a heated kiss, but he refrained. They were supposed to be working after all, so he tried to get himself back on track. "Imagine it's a success, and there's no backfire. Have you thought about what'd happen if the parchment were destroyed? A broken blood bond has disastrous effects."

"Well, there is a way to stabilize it," she started, and he slowly began to question whether he was the one who was bonkers. Listening intently, he prayed her next words would justify the strange rationality he was beginning to grasp. "If we take a stabilization potion, and dip the parchment into it along with our blood, then cast the spell, it would make it so that our ability to read the paper is bonded, not our souls. Instead, the parchments are fatally bonded to each other, and not to the readers."

She summoned the pile of scrolls that were left in the windowsill. Her notes from other various texts, written in neat curvy letters, outlined the proper way to protect the communication. George flipped through the pages, reading hurriedly while the feeling of dread in his stomach lessened with each word. Hermione even found a way to stabilize the casting, limiting the chance of backfires. Glancing up at her briefly, he wondered if indeed his initial assumption of sleeping for a week was correct, before returning to her notes.

"If one parchment gets destroyed, the other does, but nothing happens to the readers," he muttered to himself, his mind racing through the information. Of course, she thought of everything. This was Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of the age, and the woman he loved. Anything less than an unconventional brilliance was impossible.

"Exactly," she said softly, and he nodded with an easy smile.

"I may have been hasty in calling you crazy."

"No, you are right," Hermione blushed, and George felt a pang of regret at jumping to conclusions. He reached up, stroking the skin on her cheek as she continued. "A blood charm is very dangerous to try, and attempt at all, even with stabilisation, I know I am asking too much of you."

"You aren't asking enough." Why did she keep avoiding his face? He looked down at the parchment once more. The last page was half-full with marks of her quill trailing with an unsure stroke. She was not telling him everything. "What are you hiding?"

"I would need Fred's help." Ah, his twin, the potions master. The redhead would not see the rationality in dangerous charms, despite his reckless inclination to complicated magic. Immediately, George knew what his task was, besides the intricate castings. He had to convince Fred to brew the potion needed to make this bond at all feasible. "He knows potions, and a very delicate one must be brewed for this."

Fred Weasley was certainly a master at delicate potions. Even Snape was aware of his twin's skill. He had created a slew of prank brews far too brilliant than ever seen before, and not to mention an antidote to the cruciatus curse. He was needed for this endeavour. But, with a little bit of thought, George realised another possible danger, one created by that very same potion master.

"Hermione," George said hesitantly. The last thing George wanted was to deflate any joy the solution brought. "Have you given any thought to the potential of your antidote affecting the blood charm?"

"That is another thing I want to discuss with Fred," she nodded, and, with a deep breath, George realised that she indeed had thought of everything. "I need the ingredients for the antidote to verify if that is at all a possibility."

"Right," he hummed, looking again at the notes, and reading some of the magic.

"I know you think this is crazy, and I would never ask you to willingly get into an argument with Fred, but—" Hermione trailed off, looking out the window. Is that what she was worried about? Whether this request, and ultimately her, would drive a wedge between his twin, and him?

"Love," his finger guided her chin, aligning her eyes with his. George never wanted her to fear him, "you're amazing." When her brow rose, he added, "Really, you are." Leaning forward, he placed a deep kiss on her lips, smiling when she relaxed at his touch. Her arms looped around his neck while his hand tangled in her hair. "Anything you need," he mumbled, "I will help you with."

Her smiled pressed against his with a contented hum before pulling back.

"You said we would get work done today," Hermione pouted, giving him a soft shove, and George laughed. His arm snaked around her waist, hauling her back against him as he leaned back into the metal headboard. His lips trailed up her neck in a series of nips, and kisses, before reaching her ear.

"And we will," nuzzling her hair, George felt her shiver, "just after I show that bloody book who you really belong to."

* * *


	24. Chapter 24

**Love and War**  
**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**A Series Of Vows**

* * *

The air was stale. It lingered in the vast halls of the infirmary from the dust which swirled down from the light fixtures that swayed back and forth on their metal chains. The tall arched windows and high ceilings allowed for even the softest sounds to boom off the ancient walls. Hermione Grangers's sleeping breath echoed within the silence; each one, unsteady and ragged, seemed louder than the last. They were all George Weasley could hear in the stillness.

The moonlight escaped the cloud cover and shimmered off the glass phial on her bedside table; the purple remnants of the Cruciatus Cure lay at the bottom. He rested in a chair by her bed, his fingers tracing circles into her soft skin as he held her hand. Just a few more hours, and it would be over. Tonight was the last session of Hermione's treatment, after this her blood would be clean again, but until then, they were in limbo. Her skin was pale and damp as she shivered in the metal frame bed, fighting through a nightmare. Her lips were almost blue from the chill that fell over her body. Tears began to drip out the corners of her scrunched eyes, and George reached over to wipe them. The potion was currently pulling all the poison out of her blood, and all he could do was sit and watch. He needed a distraction.

The soft creek that broke the silence was just that. Immediately, George grabbed his wand, ready to greet any threat with violence, but luckily need not fire a single spell. His shoulders visibly relaxed when he saw his younger brother Ronald Weasley standing in the doorway. Ron's towering shadow stretched across the stone floor, spanning the distance between them, and skimmed the toes of George's boots. Well, taking into consideration their last argument, this certainly would be time-consuming.

George resumed his seat and waited; he hardly cared to hear Ron's thoughts, but he was not about to start a fight with his brother. Especially when the woman he loved was suffering. Ron, however, surprised him. He turned around silently, shut the door, and walked over to where George was sitting, pausing for a beat before taking up the chair on Hermione's other side. An uncomfortable silence fell over them, the minutes stretching into an hour before they spoke. It was Ron who broke their unspoken truce of silence.

"How long does this go on for?" he asked, his tone even and stoic.

"Last time was about four hours," with a glance at his wristwatch, he continued, "about two hours left." Ron nodded. They waited another hour, both motionless except for the rise and fall of their chests. George's hand was stiff as he held Hermione's, but he refused to let go.

"I didn't know you were captured." George was a little taken aback at the sudden conversation, the topic was jarring as it was, but the suddenness of its introduction did little to ease that fact. He remained still, unsure where this was heading and unsure of what it meant exactly. "And, I didn't know that," Ron continued before trailing off.

"She's tough," George finally whispered before bringing her hand up to his lips. Hermione would make it through this. She had to. George did not think he would survive this war if she did not.

"I was a prat before." Ron finally said.

"Yes, you were," His words were sharp with finality and Ron slumped forward in his chair. Had the topic not been so severe, George would have likely been relishing in this moment. A smile plastered on his face as he let Ron fumbled through his guilt and apologies, trying and failing to be graceful in his admission of wrongdoing. This time, however, it was different.

They were talking about Hermione and her wellbeing, not some stupid childhood blunder. The awkward hesitation in Ron's voice only hinted at how difficult it was for him and, had George not watched Ron grow into the man he was now, he would have missed it. He supposed that Ron could use just a little bit of slack.

"It doesn't make it any better, I know."

"No, it doesn't." George said, but his tone was less harsh this time as he glanced up to meet his brother's gaze, "But that doesn't make it your fault either."

"I said his name," George tensed at Ron's words. Such a careless, stupid mistake lead to that, but its innocence overshadowed. It was a mistake, one that none would forget, but, unlike the actions taken in Malfoy Manor, it was not malicious. "I'm the reason they were after us. I let them take her."

"The only one to blame is the one who started the war."

They fell into the unspoken again. George did not want to say more on who was at fault. He could already feel himself getting reckless with rage and had not moved. His thoughts, however, were racing through the possibilities, anxious to get into a situation where he could wrap his hands around Fenrir Greyback's throat and watch the life slip out of the wolf's eyes. But, he had to be patient. That would come in time.

"It was bad, wasn't it." Ron startled George out of his thoughts.

"Yeah," he said clearing his throat, his mouth suddenly parched.

"What you did for her, saving her, I-I don't know what I could have done the same." Ron laughed sadly, "I wouldn't have been strong enough. She probably would have saved me." George remained silent, feeling the strength he had fade slowly. He was so exhausted already, and this type of emotional reconciliation was both draining and relieving. "I guess I wanted to love something as much as Dad loves Mum. I wanted someone, not something, to fight for." Ron ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the strands at the back of his neck sheepishly. "It is selfish, I know, but I wanted her to get me through the roughness of the war without having to return that. I didn't stop to think that maybe she needed the same. That maybe she wanted something that went just beyond this war."

That was a lot to take in, but all George could do was nod in understanding, because he could. The horror surrounding them twisted them into jaded people, selfish in any attempt at some sliver of happiness. Then there was love. That is when everything changed, and the fight became more about saving those you loved, rather than yourself. He was selfish though because all George wanted at this moment was to be alone with the woman he loved. All he wanted was for her to wake up and smile and him so he could hold her until the sun rose high. George sat there, counting the seconds as they ticked by on his watch; _forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-_

"You love her." It was a statement, not a question, but George still answered.

"Yes."

"More than I do."

"Ron," George sighed in defeat, "even with that being true, I don't make the decision on who _she_ loves more. Should she want to be with someone better suited or even a troll like yourself I would let her go freely. I just want her the happiest she can be." Their eyes met again, and for the first time since Ron came to the infirmary, his eyes were not as ashamed and easy to read. George suddenly understood. Ron was not there to fight for whatever love he may have felt for Hermione; he was there to give his blessing. "I promise to love and cherish her, and always put her happiness and safety above all else."

"I know," Ron said with a crisp nod. "I won't stand in your way. You were right; I don't feel anything real about her, beyond friendship. I haven't found my footing yet in this war. It's hard. I have experienced hard, but what you went through, what she went through, that's something I'll never understand."

"And I wish you never will," George said sternly. "Ron, listen, you're my brother, and more importantly, a Weasley. You'll always have love in your life. This family is big enough to get lost in, but don't ever doubt the amount of love that surrounds you. And, as for your footing, well, it's war. I don't think any of us know how to tread. We just have to go with it and hope we make it out alive."

There was a pause before Ron spoke one more time.

"What I said before, about you not caring about her," George winced, his face scrunched with a silent hiss.

"Not one of your finer moments."

"I didn't mean that," Ron admits. "Thank you for pulling her out of that memory." With that, Ron stood, but as he turned to leave, he paused briefly, as if he wanted to say something more, but the words were too heavy. George did not blame him for it, not when Hermione was laying there in a hospital bed. It was not the time. He traced his thumb across her cheek, feeling her smooth skin under the rough callus of his finger. There was so little of that now, time; the very notion of it was fleeting, whizzing by faster than the golden snitch, and George wanted to spend every last second of it looking at Hermione Granger's face.

"You're going to kill him, aren't you?" Ron asked, but when George remained silent, he pressed the question again thinking that George did not understand, "Greyback; you're going to kill him, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am." He did not waver or stutter out the magnitude of his promise. There was no hesitation on this. Fenrir Greyback was going to die at the end of this war, and George Weasley would be the one to do it. He was never more certain of anything in his life.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Wow. It has been quite a long time. I apologise for the delay. I am currently working on the final chapters of this story and do plan on having it finished by the end of the year. I did not forget about this! I am also going back and editing all the initial chapters, improving what I didn't years ago.

As usual, **_please review!_**


	25. Chapter 24: A New Dawn

**Love and War**   
**Chapter 24**

**The New Dawn**

* * *

It was morning when Hermione awoke. The sun had not risen yet, but the early morning smell filled the infirmary. There was a relief in the air, swirling in wisps through Hermione's mind; tonight she would finally sleep in a room without a booming echo. Bringing up her hand, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes; the dark circles around them highlighted that she was far from rested. That was not news. In truth, Hermione had not slept soundly for more than a few hours at a time. Her mind was frazzled with a thousand thoughts on everything. How to fine-tune the parchment, how to aide the war, how terrified she is to face those demons that plagued her, and how her love for George Weasley may deteriorate the rest of his world.

Hermione shifted, turning onto her side to look at the wizard who was dozing in the chair next to her bed. George Weasley truly was a remarkable man. All he did for her. Hermione was mesmerised by how lucky she was, and she was so grateful for all of it, but Hermione was starting to realise that she could not let him give up his family. How could she be the one responsible for putting a rift in the Weasley clan? No, she would have to fix whatever damage was done between Ron and him before they would feel right.

Easing out of bed, Hermione slipped into her slippers and pulled George's old Quidditch sweater, her new favourite sweater, over her head. She was just reaching for the handle to the infirmary when the very person she was looking for walked in.

"What are you doing walking?" Ron said with wide eyes that dripped with concern.

"Never you mind, Ronald." She started, holding up her hand to stop whatever he tried to respond with; he was not going to get a word in. "Look, George is your brother, and just because I love him doesn't mean you can just walk out of his life. I made a choice, and I need you to be happy with it because, well, I love him and he's your brother."

"Her-" Ron started again only to be cut off abruptly.

"And don't you _dare_ say that you don't care, because I know you do. Be happy for him. For me. For us."

"Are you done now?" He asked after a moment of silence, and she nodded with a glare. "Because what I was going to say before you started ranting is that George and I already sorted things out."

"Y-You did?" Hermione said with surprise. "Oh."

"Yes, well I don't expect you to remember, but we talked about it last night, and I'm happy for you, Hermione. Both of you."

"You did. You are." She said with surprised hesitation, "You are. Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Oh, thank goodness, because I couldn't bear it if you weren't," She said with elation and immediately gave him a hug. "I am so sorry."

"For loving my brother?" He said with a laugh, "Yeah, I'd be too."

* * *

A bang sounded from the other side of the study and Hermione jumped. Harry's face tarnished with ash; he must have lost the game of Exploding Snap he and Ron were playing. The laughter bubbling out of Ron's mouth was a dead giveaway. She smiled. Carefree moments were rare in this war, and Hermione wished she could live in it forever.

It had been two days since her final treatment, and she was doing rather well for the time being. Truth be told she was quite anxious. Twelve hours ago, she and George pitched the idea to Fred, Ron, and Harry. The latter two were all for performing the blood bond, Fred, on the other hand, did not say a word. All he did was gather up the pages which Hermione stacked in front of him and left to locked himself in his office. George explained that he had done this before. It was Fred's way of processing schemes apparently. Who knew Fred Weasley needed complete solitude to go through all the aspects of a plan? Still, it was very unnerving.

Hermione glanced up from her book. Across her sat the most caring man she had ever met. He was reading as well, the book drawn into his lap as he scribbled notes on a parchment. She was supposed to be doing the same but was far too distracted. It was an entirely new feeling for her. Hermione Granger was too distracted to read, but there was something about the way his brow was furrowed in concentration. She had been set ablaze. His determination was quite attractive really. His blue eyes hardened into ice as he focused, his ginger hair looked shaggier as it fell forward, his jaw tensing as he set himself into gear. Merlin, help her. Her hair fell before her eyes, and she brushed the strands back, her breath coming out in a steady and calming rhythm as she tried to steady herself. Hermione was thoroughly distracted.

With a sigh, Hermione closed her book and set it on the table next to the others she had discarded. George met her gaze, silently offering support as they waited for Fred's return. She nodded, hoping he did not notice the blush that was spreading across her body, before grabbing a new novel. But, she had not gotten far into it when the door to the study slammed open.

"Insane!" Fred's voice boomed off the ceiling. Harry and Ron were startled as they watched Fred march over to the armchairs that George and Hermione sat in. "You're both bloody insane." Fred dumped the stack of papers on the table in front of Hermione. "You're making me question whether my potion has side effects. Maybe instead of curing insanity, it makes it you crazier." Hermione was dumbfounded, staring up into Fred's eyes with an evident terror.

"Fred," George said in warning but was cut off by a cold glare from his twin. It seemed to scare him straight, but something was off. George quieted instead of defending her, and Hermione's terror intensified. Oh boy, Fred must have been quite angry with them to get that kind of reaction.

"Was this your brilliant idea?" Hermione could not respond; she just stared up into the blue eyes that pierced through her with an intimidating intensity. "I'm talking to you, Granger. This reeks of your brilliance."

"Y-yes," she murmured, looking down at the notes before her, suddenly taking in the new set of opinions scribbled along side hers. Her eyes snapped back to Fred's, wide and shocked, but not with fear this time. She realised he was serious. He actually thought this plan was brilliant.

"The brightest witch of our age, gentleman," he shouted, clapping his hands together as if he was introducing her into society. "Stand up now, take a bow." Hermione was completely elated. This was going to happen; they were going to make this work crazy idea work, and she could help end the war. Hermione was so happy; she actually did get up and take a bow.

* * *

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